


Back Again To Stay

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Lydia Martin has intimacy issues, Non-Supernatural Beacon Hills, Stiles Stilinski continues to be Lydia Martin trash despite aforementioned intimacy issues, Unplanned Pregnancy, the usual really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: Lydia Martin marries Stiles Stilinski for the first time on April 10th, 2002, almost exactly eleven years before their first dance. They stand right next to Stiles’ favorite red slide. Scott McCall is both the officiator and the best man. Lydia wears her pink dress with the little white hearts, and she smiles when Stiles very solemnly slides a daisy ring onto her finger and says “I do.” The reception consists of apple juice, for the groom, and pink lemonade for the bride, sucked out of juice box straws with teeth marks indented into them. Eleven years later, he puts his hands on her waist and grips a little too tightly as they move slowly and stiffly across the dance floor.
   (Completely AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maggsam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggsam/gifts).



> Alright. So. This is basically the fanfic I told myself I would never, ever write. I also wouldn't read this fanfic, so if you don't want to, I definitely will not blame you. 
> 
> This fanfic is a gift for Maggie/redstringbanshee/maggsam. I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, and this is what she asked for. Maggie, I have no faith in my ability to give you what you want and to do it well because I hate basically every single trope in this fanfic, but I love you, so here you go, gorgeous. I hope you enjoy this. Despite how much I hate these tropes, I think I had fun writing it? 
> 
> Lydia and Stiles are eighteen at the beginning of this fic, and they're nineteen by the end. 
> 
> AND THANK YOU TO SOPHII (BLACKJACKTHEBOSS) FOR BETA READING THIS. SOPHII, YOU MAKE MY LIFE 80 TIMES BETTER WITH YOUR WHOLE SELF, THANK YOU FOR BEING YOU.

Lydia Martin marries Stiles Stilinski for the first time on April 10th, 2002, almost exactly eleven years before their first dance.

They stand right next to Stiles' favorite red slide. Scott McCall is both the officiator and the best man. Lydia wears her pink dress with the little white hearts, and she smiles when Stiles very solemnly slides a daisy ring onto her finger and says "I do." The reception consists of apple juice, for the groom, and pink lemonade for the bride, sucked out of juice box straws with teeth marks indented into them.

She and her new husband don't interact for a while after that, until the day that she finds him with his back against the wall in the art room, cornered. The lights are off— she'd just run inside to grab her lunchbox— and the room is empty except for the small boy whose freckles she sometimes counts during Social Studies.

He sits with his knees drawn up to his chest and with drops of darkness slipping down his cheeks from his watery eyes. She carefully gets onto the dusty, dirty floor with him and wonders what it feels like to lose something that is supposed to be permanent.

Eleven years later, he puts his hands on her waist and grips a little too tightly as they move slowly and stiffly across the dance floor.

"Are you going to explain yourself?" Lydia hisses while Stiles looks decidedly over her shoulder; anywhere but her eyes.

A small, annoyed smile quirks its way onto the corner of his mouth. He raises his hand and spins Lydia out, her floor-length, silky navy blue dress swishing around her ankles, showing off the silver heels.

"You don't want to know," he says darkly, once she's returned to him, and Lydia rolls her eyes at his dramatics, smacking Stiles on the shoulder before plastering a fake smile onto her face so that their classmates don't suspect that she is thinking about which dead languages she could curse him out in.

"I don't want to know why you ran onto the stage before Jackson could get his prom king crown and took it yourself?" She repeats slowly, mockingly— then pauses for emphasis. "Actually, I think I _do_."

Stiles winces slightly.

"Um." He glances down at her for the first time, eyes hopeful. "I've been in love with you throughout high school and I was desperate to dance with you?"

"Bullshit," Lydia says clearly. "What's the actual reason?"

Stiles sighs.

"Jackson left. When he heard your name being called, he left." Her heart sinks a little in her chest, but there's a note of anger beating in it that feels more freeing than she'd care to admit. "And I didn't want… you know. You to be stuck up there. Waiting for him."

Lydia frowns, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"And it didn't occur to you to send my _actual_ date up onto that stage?"

He twirls her again.

"Aw, c'mon, Martin. I'm not _that_ nice."

"You're not any nice at all," she counters.

"Well, you beat me out for valedictorian. The _least_ I can do is force you to dance with me at prom in front of all of our friends and classmates, effectively torturing you the way you have spent the last several years torturing me." He pauses to dip her despite the fact that it doesn't seem to fit with the music. "And, for the record, I want a rematch."

As he brings her back up, she watches the way the pink and blue lights dance across his face, emphasizing the heavy bags under his eyes. She's always liked the way his nose curves upwards, and as he looks to the side— over at Scott, Lydia would assume— she watches it carefully, tracing it with her eyes.

He turns back to her abruptly, startled to see her look at him with a tenderness in her eyes that Lydia knows isn't characteristic, and she rearranges her features into a grimace, even though it isn't quick enough. For a moment, his gaze seeps into her, and she finds herself feeling _unsteady_ — like he's rocking her back and forth. His lips quirk up when he sees the wavering in her eyes, or maybe he realizes that she's gripping him harder as they sway. Either way, Lydia hardens her expression to him; Stiles shakes his head, ducking it low, somehow winding up with his nose pressed against her skin.

They don't talk for the rest of the dance. The soft music lulls Lydia into a strange sense of security, and she tucks her face into Stiles' neck without quite understanding why she's doing it. Maybe it's because everything is about to change and he is one of those things that has been consistent since the first day of kindergarten. Stiles Stilinski has always been there with his bad haircuts and loud speaking voice and sarcastic comments and eyes that look like liquid in the sunlight.

And despite the fact that all of high school had been spent trying to beat him— and succeeding rather handily, by the way— Lydia thinks that she's going to miss the light quips in the hallway in the morning, and bickering with each other at the lunch table while Scott and Allison made goo-goo eyes at each other, and the small pranks that he'd play on her when they were chemistry lab partners junior year, and the times that the library was too crowded so she'd be forced to sit next to Stiles, suffering in silence as they studied together-but-not-together.

She's loathe to admit it, but Stiles is just as much a part of the last four years as anything else. As the parties she'd thrown for her birthdays, as attending lacrosse games with Allison, as losing her virginity to Jackson, as breaking _up_ with Jackson… the list goes on, and to say that Stiles isn't on it would be a lie.

Lydia Martin is in control of her feelings. She isn't accustomed to having to lie to herself. So she doesn't. She doesn't tell herself that she isn't thinking about the way his arm feels under her hand, or that she isn't affected by the familiar scent of him, or that the long fingers on her back aren't tempting the hell out of her.

She doesn't lie to herself. But she doesn't explore it further either. For now, she tucks herself into the safety of what she knows and thinks, with mild satisfaction, that there will be a way to get him back later. Hopefully. _Probably_. Because that's what they do— they compete, they take revenge, they get each other back. And it's fun and it's good and Lydia had never quite considered what it would mean to let that go and walk away from Stiles.

Except then the song ends, and Lydia finds herself feeling like it's all too soon, too fast, and she sees her date hovering close to the edge of the dance floor, waiting for her uncertainly, but there's nothing in Lydia that is inclined to go back over to him.

 _Stay_ , she finds herself thinking, because Stiles Stilinski feels like summers spent in the backseat of his car with Allison's head on her shoulder, and he feels like waking up at six-thirty in the morning to be on time for chem, and he feels like the form of excitement that comes with having someone who could _almost-_ but-not-quite match her pace-for-pace.

Plus, she'd once seen him eating a popsicle after gym glass and it had been magical.

They're almost all the way off the dance floor when she finds herself turning to Stiles very abruptly.

"I expect you want some sort of repayment for 'saving' me from crushing humiliation or whatever."

Lydia wonders if he can see her face— if he knows that she's _hoping_.

"Nah," he says, shrugging. "I'm good."

Lydia narrows her eyes. _Neanderthal._ He's going to make this harder on her, isn't he?

"You're… good," she echoes flatly.

He nods contently.

"Yeah. Thanks for the dance."

How is this guy not getting that she's hitting on him? This isn't difficult, is it?

Okay, so she might not be doing the best job, but _whatever_. It's Stilinski. She shouldn't have to try hard for Stilinski.

Stiles nods at her, a little too low, almost like he's bowing to her, and it's startling, the way he looks at her. He spins around and starts walking away, loosening his tie, but Lydia darts forward, stopping him.

"If that's the case, then I think _you_ owe _me_."

He turns around, looking befuddled.

"Okay. How do you figure?"

Well, first off, for making her ridiculously turned on just by dancing with her. He definitely owes her for that one.

"You said you were in love with me throughout high school, right?" He laughs, pained, and his eyes don't meet hers. A moment ago, she'd been certain that it was a joke, but for a second her heart stutters before she shoves the new thought directly into the back of her mind. "So if that's the case, you're _welcome_ for that dance, and you owe me one."

"What do you want, Lydia?" he asks, looking amused. "And if it's for me to streak across the field at graduation, don't even bother to try. I'm already planning on it."

She has to stop herself from laughing at him because Stiles Stilinski is not supposed to make her laugh.

"I have a hotel room that my date is expecting me to use with him tonight. I want him to see us going into it together so that he doesn't try anything."

To be honest, Joshua isn't really an issue— he's harmless, like a puppy, but Lydia can't use the "studying" excuse and she can't exactly ask Stiles to come over and bake cookies with her, and... Yes. Yes, this is a booty call. No, she's not _exactly_ sure if Stiles realizes it.

The furrow of Stiles' brow gets deeper.

"Do you need me to beat him up?"

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

"Stiles."

He glances down at himself.

"Okay, fine. Do you need me to get Scott to beat him up?"

Lydia smacks him on the arm.

"No, because I have this foolproof plan, you idiot."

He laughs a little, rubbing his arm, staring at her with awe in his eyes.

"You really think he'd believe that _you_ would want to go to a hotel room with… me? If you haven't noticed, we don't exactly get along."

Perfect.

"Well," Lydia hedges. "He _might_. If."

"If?"

She steps closer, at the edge of the dance floor, crowded close to him. He's startled— she can just tell— but his eyes flicker down to her lips almost as if he can't help himself. She knows she's close to him, but she is suddenly wondering how many times they have been in this exact moment and she hasn't even noticed.

"If we're convincing enough," she murmurs.

Then she leans forward and kisses him, her mouth confident and insistent and intent on wrecking him. When she pulls back, he certainly does look wrecked. His eyes are wide and dark as he watches her, and a little wet, Lydia thinks, but she's more focused on the wetness of his mouth. The way his tongue darts out immediately so that he can taste her, not seeming to want to let her go.

"Lydia—" he murmurs, seeming conflicted, but she grabs him by the wrist and tugs him out of the ballroom, letting the music fade off into the distance.

The hallway is brightly lit enough for Lydia to feel properly ashamed about the fact that she had just spent several moments attempting to figure out how to seduce Stiles freaking Stilinski. She pulls him to the elevator, tapping her fingers impatiently against her arms as she waits for it to arrive. Her plan tonight had involved sleeping with Joshua and then calling Allison tomorrow morning to gab about it. Apparently, it's been derailed.

The door slides open, and Lydia walks into the elevator without looking over at Stiles. When she turns around, he's still staring at her, face calculating.

"What?" she says, annoyed.

"Oh, nothing," he says slowly. "It's just that I'm pretty sure you want to fuck me right now."

Lydia feels panic cross her face as the elevator begins to slide closed and Stiles sticks out a foot to stop it, his hands deep in his pockets.

"What gave it away?" she asks sarcastically. "Was it me kissing you, or me bringing you into an elevator?"

He raises one eyebrow at her.

"Little bit of both," he says decisively.

"I thought you were supposed to be smart," Lydia says. "Clearly you're not used to picking up on cues."

"If everybody spoke in code like you do, nobody would get anything done," he tells her. "You can tell me you want to fuck me, you know. I won't laugh at you or anything. Scout's honor."

"You're not a boy scout."

"Well, you're no girl scout either," he says.

Lydia groans in exasperation.

"Are you going to get on this elevator or not, Stilinski?" she says. "Because there's about fifty more accommodating boys out there who will give me what I want without all the bullshit."

"Right," he agrees, stepping onto the elevator with her. The door slides closed behind the two of them as Stiles slides his hands onto Lydia's waist. "But none of them have the mouth I do."

He does have a pretty mouth; she'll give him that. Cupid's bow curved pointedly and artfully, like it was painted that way. Pink lips, not full but not thin. Just… pretty. Delicate. Hers to ruin, she thinks as Stiles leans down and presses his mouth against hers. He isn't soft with her— he bites and sucks like she's his to ruin as well, his mouth hot on hers. His hands slide down to her ass almost immediately, gripping it without pretense, pulling her body closer to his as he backs her into the rail of the elevator.

Lydia fists her hands in his hair as he lets his mouth drift from her cheek to her neck, panting into her skin there as she leans her head against the wall. She feels like everything in her body is centered on his mouth on her neck, on the tender way he touches his lips to her skin.

The elevator doors ding open, and they leave it quickly, marching down the hallway without speaking. Lydia reaches into her clutch for the keycard with shaking hands, eager to get the door open before she loses her nerve. But Stiles has his arms around her from behind and is lewdly sucking a hickey into her neck as she inserts the keycard shakily into its slot, and, truth be told, nothing short of the apocalypse could keep her from him at this point.

She darts forward into the room, slamming the door shut behind the two of them and dragging his jacket off of his shoulders. As he kisses her, she can feel the muscles on his arms underneath the white shirt he wears, and she isn't really sure why she's surprised by them, but suddenly she's starting to think that he might take her breath away.

"Get this off of me," she instructs him, turning around so that he can unzip her dress. He kisses her shoulders as he does, the action a little too tender, but then the dress is pooling on the floor and Stiles is groaning at the sight of her lacy red underwear and the black and red bra that matches it.

"What the fuck, Lydia," he says, running a hand through his hair, eyes on her breasts.

She brings her thumb up to her mouth and bites down on the nail while he stares at her, waiting for him to look back up at her eyes. There's a nervousness to her that has nothing to do with her body— she knows she's hot. She knows she looks good. It's about something deeper, something rooted in her. Stiles Stilinski is looking at her and she's half naked.

He's looking at her like she's _his_.

She can see how hard he is underneath his pants, and it's making her mouth dry, thinking about all the things he could be doing to her right now.

Lydia Martin has never been a patient girl.

It's only a few moments before she's back on him, palming him over his pants and causing him to buck into the movements. When she looks at his face, she finds his eyes fixated on her, cataloguing her reaction to him. They look as watery as they did before, but somehow they're on fire.

Without thinking about anything but getting Stiles' eyes to burn brighter, her hands find the buttons on his shirt and she undoes them quickly and methodically, as though this is just a normal thing that she does every single day with Stiles Stilinski. Once it's off, he strips off the white t-shirt underneath, and then he's pushing her back against the bed, his mouth eager on hers again before she can get a chance to properly look at him.

"I'm gonna make you come so hard, Lydia," he murmurs as he drops small, light kisses on her mouth. "Swear to god, I've always wanted to know if I could get you to shut the fuck up by making you come."

"You're a pig," she notifies him, but it comes out as a moan because he's rubbing his hand over her core and it feels incredible.

"Be really, really nice to me, or else I'm not gonna go down on you."

"I don't—" Lydia starts, but Stiles tilts his head to the side and smirks at her, and she swallows her words down. Closes her mouth, staring at him as he slides down the bed, getting his head between her legs and pulling her panties off.

Her eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the first tentative lick of his tongue, heart absolutely rocketing across her ribcage. This is it. They can't go back from this. This is _it_ — she's going to let him do this to her and she has a horrible feeling that she is going to enjoy it.

His mouth never finds her. Instead, she pops her eyes open a few moments later to find Stiles staring with a contemplative expression. He looks up at her when she opens her eyes, head cocked again.

"I want you to sit on my face," he decides.

Lydia's glad she's not standing up, because she's relatively certain her knees would have gone weak had she been standing up.

"Do you want it to be easier for me to make good on the suffocation threat that I've been leveling at you for years?"

(She happens to like the image of his head between her legs, for the record. She happens to like it _far_ too much.)

"Nah," he says casually. "I think I just have enough confidence in my tongue to know that it's worth preserving." He climbs to the head of the bed with her, then kisses the look of shock off of her mouth, creating a simmer of eagerness in her stomach. Before she has a moment to consider, he's gripping her ass and rolling the two of them over so that he's on his back and Lydia is straddling him, her center against the bulge in his pants. "C'mon, Lydia," he coaxes, a little mockingly. "I'll be good if you will."

She rolls her eyes, carefully readjusting herself until she's sitting on his face, her knuckles white as she grips the headboard.

It isn't clear whether it's the dexterity of his tongue or his moans that gets Lydia off so quickly, but she's gasping into the air, not thinking about anything except how desperate she is to get off. Underneath her, Stiles seems to be just as desperate as she is, his hands leaving harsh marks on her body, and she wants them. She wants to remember him, to remember the way it felt as she rode his face and his nose nudged against all the best places inside of her body. She thinks about every time he'd pulled her hair; antagonized her; annoyed her while she was just trying to hang out with Allison. And then she focuses, thinking about the fact that Stiles, who she has been bucking heads with since middle school, is _underneath_ her. Eating her out and groaning like he's on the receiving end.

She comes with a hand thrust into her hair and a high pitched whine at the back of her throat as beads of sweat drips between her breasts.

"Fuck, you're loud," Stiles says, sounding destroyed. She's boneless and sensitive and somehow more desperate than ever, staring at him between her legs with that same smirk on his lips. Lydia makes to get off of him, but Stiles grabs her thighs, keeping her in place. "Nuh-uh," he says. "Stay there, Martin."

Her eyes widen as he begins to lick at her again, and she wants to tell him to stop, that it's too much, but her words die in her throat. She rides his face until she comes again, sparks flashing before her eyes, and she can't believe this is happening. Can't believe that he's just giving over and over again, seeming enthusiastic and steady and warm underneath her.

(When he flips them over and makes her come a third time with his fingers, his tongue steady on her hyper-sensitive clit, she's half furious and half questioning every single decision she'd ever made that had lead her away from doing this with him throughout high school. All of high school. Every year. Every day. Over and over and over again.)

She pulls a pillow over her face, hiding behind it as she catches her breath, her hips jerking periodically as she thinks about Stiles' head between her legs.

There is absolutely a zero percent chance that she isn't going to obsess over this later. It's embarrassing, actually, how good that was for her. Humiliating. Disgusting. Stiles is supposed to be sub-par at best; he isn't supposed to be an expert in cunnalingus.

She just has to make up for it, that's all.

Lydia shoves the pillow off of her face and looks at Stiles. His cheeks are a bright, ruddy red as he stares down at her, still looking far too proud of himself considering the fact that he hadn't even gotten her bra off of her yet.

"I'd give that a five."

"Out of ten?" She nods. He snorts. "Please."

"There's always room for improvement."

"Considering how loud you were, I'd say there's not much more agreement you could have had."

She shrugs casually.

"I've had better."

"Oh, blow me, Lydia."

And there it is.

"Okay," she says without hesitating.

It's Stiles' turn to widen his eyes as Lydia scoots off of the bed and gets on her knees on the floor, staring up at him with a purposefully innocent smile across her red lips. She pats the edge of the bed, scraping her pink nails over it. Stiles chews on his bottom lip as he sits where she's indicated, looking like an odd cross between hesitant and awed.

There's a wet spot on the front of his gray boxer briefs, Lydia notes with a small smirk. She takes them off of him and he kicks them to the floor, his bottom lip still in his mouth as he watches her. Lydia takes him in hand, gathering precome with her thumb before she delicately slides her fingers up and down a few times. Stiles grunts, hips jerking into her hand.

"Tighter," he says, and Lydia raises her eyebrows, glaring.

"If I wanted instructions, I'd read a packet."

"Well, I'm just saying—"

"I know what I'm doing," she says primly before wrapping her mouth around him and taking him as deep as she can get him. His eyes bulge wide, shock crossing his face at the sight of it.

She maintains eye contact with him the whole time, feeling power coursing through her when his whimpers turn louder and he comes with a long whine. Then Lydia neatly wipes her mouth and stands up, snatching her panties from the side of the bed where Stiles had thrown them.

"Be right back," she says, giving him a moment as she goes into the bathroom.

He's in the same place on the bed when she comes back, albeit wearing his underwear and a t-shirt.

"So," he says. "Um."

Now that they've gotten off, there's a small amount of shame that comes with their actions. It's not that Lydia is embarrassed to have had sex— it's the fact that she did it with _Stiles._ And, ugh, she was loud. And then she kneeled on the floor in front of him, which is probably the worst part. God.

"You should probably—" she begins, playing with the lightly curled hair that is still thrown over her shoulder, but Stiles cuts her off.

"Gone With The Wind is on TCM right now," he says, pointing to the TV. "And, um, it's my mom's favorite movie, so I try to watch parts of it whenever it's on. Could I stay for a bit?"

She doesn't know if she's more surprised at the question, or at the way she immediately nods her agreement.

"Fine," she says. "That's… fine."

"Cool," he says, then pulls back the covers and slides underneath. "It's cold."

"Stay on your side," Lydia warns him, sliding in next to him. She reaches into her purse, grabs a reece's peanut butter cup out of it, and hands one of them to Stiles. "Which part of the movie is this?"

"I dunno, it's like six hours long. I've never actually seen it in order."

"You know you could always read the wikipedia page on it," she comments. When he doesn't answer, she looks over at him to find him staring at her, his expression unreadable. "What?" she says.

"Nothing," Stiles responds. "Just thinking that you're just about as difficult as Scarlett O'Hara."

"Oh, and you are just as obnoxious and entitled as Rhett Butler," Lydia informs him sweetly. "Glad we've gotten that out of the way."

She thinks she sees him grinning as he bites into his peanut butter cup, but she certainly isn't looking. And she definitely doesn't care.

* * *

 

The look on Allison's face can only be described as unsurprised.

"Finally," she sighs, causing Lydia to pause in the mirror as she carefully peels one of the layers of her face mask off.

"What do you mean 'finally?'" she asks, looking over at Allison, who is at the other sink and is still patting the mask onto her nose.

"You and Stiles have been ready to jump each other's bones since… forever."

Allison says it in a casual way, like it's not making Lydia's stomach lurch tremendously.

"Forever?" Lydia says sarcastically. "That's what you're going for?"

"I'm a millennial; we hyperbolize," Allison says, unperturbed. "Not a hyperbole? The fact that you _totally_ had sex with Stiles."

"Stop it," Lydia says. "We didn't have sex."

"Right, you just got each other off and then watched a movie and fell asleep snuggled together. Normal 'I hate this kid and never want to see him again' stuff."

"He's horrible at staying on his side of the bed," Lydia says primly. "The spooning part is _not_ my fault."

"Or maybe he just really wanted to cuddle with you."

"Please," she scoffs. "Stiles Stilinski isn't cuddly. He's got barbed wire where there should be skin."

"Which you should know, having seen him naked," says Allison, wiggling her fingers teasingly at Lydia, a smirk tugging at her lip.

Lydia cringes. She definitely shouldn't have told Allison about this. In hindsight, all of the other hookups that Lydia has told Allison about have not been nearly as… _monumental_ as Stiles. They definitely weren't Allison's boyfriend's best friend. And they hadn't been Lydia's long-term rival whom she had married when she was seven.

Which, honestly, Allison knows very well. Although Allison hadn't moved to Beacon Hills until sophomore year, she had spent three years of high school listening to Lydia whine and complain about Stiles Stilinski. And there's something about her that has always been calm and all-knowing, in a way that irks the hell out of Lydia because _she_ is supposed to be the one who knows things.

"Have I?" Lydia asks lightly, leaving the bathroom and settling down onto her bed. "That's interesting. I'd already forgotten."

She's _leaving_ , and she is not interested in exploring whatever prom night had been any further, despite how close Stiles' school is to hers. Being in a relationship when she went to college has never been a part of the plan, and Lydia _loves_ plans. She thrives on them. They always work.

"You'd forgotten?" Allison says mockingly, dropping onto Lydia's bed next to her. "Really?"

"Mhm," replies Lydia airily.

"Sorry, _how_ long did you say he went down on you for?"

She freezes for a moment, then carefully smoothes her skirt over her upper thighs.

"Fine. Point taken."

"Anyways," Allison says, stretching languidly back and staring up at the stars on Lydia's ceiling. "I think you should talk to him about it. You might be surprised by what he has to say."

"I'd be more surprised if he didn't have anything to say at all," Lydia says drily. "And I don't need to talk to him, Allison."

"Suit yourself," says Allison, shrugging. "I don't really care what happens as long as it's not awkward when you two are best man and maid of honor at my wedding to Scott."

"That's thinking awfully far ahead," says Lydia, a little surprised.

"Fate is fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

"True," Allison says, eyes glinting mischievously as she pokes Lydia in the side. "But that was before you hooked up with Stiles Stilinski."

* * *

 

She gives her graduation speech to him.

It's not like she _means_ to, but his eyes are settled on her so softly and contently; a gust of wind that is always, endlessly ruffling her, and this time it is more serene than playful. So she looks too. It's just short of watching, but it lingers in the same way.

A part of her thinks that he might be the reason she's up here giving this speech. A part of her wonders if their games dance across her words, and suddenly the whole thing seems much more personal; so much more private

When her mother kisses her cheek and asks her what Lydia was looking at, she shrugs and smiles brightly for the camera that flashes off in the distance.

* * *

 

It figures that Isaac Lahey would be late on the hottest, stickiest night of the summer. Despite the fact that it's August, the heat isn't fading at all, leaving Lydia annoyed and more than a little bit resentful as she digs her heels into the rocky gravel outside of the ice cream stand. Annoyance quirks her nose into a grimace as she watches dust settle over her feet, but instead of throwing a temper tantrum like she might have a few years ago, she chooses to huff loudly in exasperation and check her phone for the fifth time since she'd arrived, deciding that Isaac is definitely buying her frozen yogurt for her.

"Uhh… Lydia?"

The first thing that Lydia registers is the effect Stiles' voice has on her stomach, before she even realizes that it is him. It's almost alarming, the way her heart lifts in her chest even as another part of her curdles in annoyance like it always does when Stiles is around.

When she looks up, he is looking as though he deeply regrets speaking.

"Stiles," she replies, fake smile in place. "Is Scott late too?"

"How did you know I was—?" he starts, then stops. "Right. I'm only friends with one person."

She wants to jab that he seemed to be _very_ good friends with Malia throughout junior year and during the first half of senior year, but decides against it. Because that would imply that she had been paying attention. And she hadn't been. Really, she hadn't.

"It's probably because of your abrasive personality," suggests Lydia, resisting a smile as Stiles rolls his eyes and sits next to her on the metal bench. He scuffs his feet across the same dirt that she had just been annoyed with, getting dust all over his black converse.

"I'd believe that," he decides. "What's your excuse?"

She's about to snap at him that she definitely has _more_ than one friend, but then she realizes that most of their friends overlap because of stupid Scott and stupid Allison, so if she used that argument, so could he.

And the truth is, both Stiles and Lydia have their _person_ , but their people each have someone else. Someone who is more important.

Looking across at Stiles, she is starting to realize that Allison might be fully aware of that. Which is why Scott and Isaac are nowhere to be seen, and Stiles is sitting next to her on a bench in front of Carter's ice cream, and they are both startlingly, terrifyingly alone.

She is also starting to think that the sadness lingering in his eyes means that he can read her mind, but that is beside the point.

Lydia stands up abruptly.

"Well, I'm getting ice cream," she decides. "Isaac can eat by himself for being fifteen minutes late."

For some reason, Stiles follows her to the line like a lost puppy, his hands shoved into the pockets of his red jeans. The uplifted slope of his nose is tilted at the ground as she steps up to the window, and Lydia thinks about the way it had felt against her— nuzzling into her neck, trailing down her breast, nudging inside of her as she had tightly gripped his hair.

She's always liked his nose.

"A kiddie moose tracks," she says decisively to the fifteen-year-old at the window. "In a cone." She pauses. Thinks about the nose. "And… whatever he's having."

Her voice is low, almost regretful as she says it, and Stiles' head snaps up.

"Oh, no, you don't have to—" She cuts him off with a withering glare (as if Lydia Martin ever does something she doesn't want to do) and gestures for him to order.

"Um, kiddie mocha chip," he says.

"He means small," Lydia comments, because she's been out to ice cream with him and Allison and Scott enough times to know what he likes. "And if the mocha chip has caffeine in it, he wants cookies and cream instead."

"Um," says Stiles.

"I'm doing it for your father," Lydia tells him. "He doesn't need you bouncing off the walls all night; he's a good person."

Stiles starts to smile, crooked and without teeth.

"Thanks, I guess," he says.

Lydia pays, and then they take their ice cream and walk back to the same bench, sitting next to each other. She wonders what she's supposed to say to him— how do you properly communicate " _Hey, I didn't really mind sucking your dick but we're going to different colleges and anyways I hate you and always have?"_ If there had been any sort of information about this in the Enemies 101 handbook, Lydia definitely would have filed it away.

(She cringes when she realizes how _Stiles_ that thought was, and then she starts thinking that maybe he'd rubbed off on her in more ways than one.)

"So when do you move in?" Stiles asks, rooting through his cookies and cream to try to find a big piece of oreo.

"The thirtieth," Lydia tells him. "You?"

"Uh, the second."

"Oh, late."

"Yeah." They sit in silence for another long moment. "And you, uh, have all your stuff? For your dorm?"

Lydia shrugs.

"No, I'm thinking of winging it."

"Really?" he asks, sounding amused. She throws him a dirty look, because he might not know everything about her but he definitely must know that she isn't the type of person who would throw everything together at the last minute. "Ha. Right."

Lydia rolls her eyes and Stiles is silent for several moments. When she slides her eyes over to him, she finds that he is staring at her licking her cone with his mouth slightly open and his eyes a little too wide. Normally, she'd slap him silly, but something warm fills her stomach, and she licks the cone with something of a flourish, getting at her lips with her tongue continuously to make it last longer.

"Do you think Allison did this on purpose?" Lydia asks when she feels like she can speak without laughing at him.

"Uh." Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear it of errant thoughts. "What?"

"To make us talk. About what happened?"

"You told her," he says, looking conflicted.

"Like you didn't tell Scott," Lydia scoffs. Her words are met with silence. "You… didn't."

Was it so bad that it wasn't _worthy_ of slanderously gossiping about it with his best friend? Not even a simple 'Hey, Scott, I ate Lydia out, it was hilarious, pass the ketchup?' She isn't sure if she should be offended or not, and then he's sliding one shoulder up and peering earnestly into her eyes.

"I wasn't really sure if you wanted me to tell."

"I hate you," Lydia mutters under her breath, to remind herself, not to remind Stiles. He blinks.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, looking back up at him. "You can tell Scott, Stiles. It's not like we're ever going to see each other again anyways."

He looks startled at that.

"Oh," he says. "Right."

She feels just as startled as he does, but she doesn't let it in. Instead, she throws the rest of her cone into the trash and bumps his shoulder with hers.

"Good thing we hate each other," she says, staring across at him with a question in her eyes.

"Definitely," agrees Stiles. "That is what I feel."

He chomps down the last bit of his cone and stands up.

"Uh, actually, I should go."

"I thought you were waiting for Scott?"

"I guess I'll hunt him down at his house."

It sounds like a good idea. Lydia's considering doing the same to Allison.

"I'll leave Isaac in the dust too," she decides, standing up and watching his eyes catch the way her mint colored skirt ripples around her pale thighs.

He walks her to her car without asking, and he seems to be fighting with himself the whole way there. Stiles' hands are in balls in his pockets, shoved deep as they'll go; he seems small.

"Well," he says, looking up at Lydia as she fiddles with her car key, wondering if she should reach for the door handle. "It's been nice knowing you."

She laughs a little, fingers twisting in each other.

"I guess you too." Lydia quirks an eyebrow, eyes flickering down, then back up. " _All_ of you."

He snorts.

"You do this shit on purpose, right?" he asks, moving a bit closer. "Just to get to me?"

"What shit?" Lydia asks, stepping back against her car. Stiles pulls up short, shakes his head, and scrubs his hand across his jaw, mouth open in disbelief.

"Jesus, Lydia. Do you actually have no idea?"

She blinks dolefully. His expression slackens, looking at it. She has never paid enough attention to his eyes at the sunset; they move with the sun. She could watch it vanish in his eyes, she thinks.

"You hate me," she says, clearly and confidently.

He shakes his head.

" _Lydia_."

"You hate me," she says again, feeling something gape a little wider inside of her.

He steps forward, hand curving around her waist. She leans her head back against her sun-warmed car, gazing up at him, feeling lazy with the ache of wanting as he traces circles into the bare skin above her high waisted skirt.

"Keep telling yourself that," he murmurs before leaning down and slowly brushing his lips against hers. He starts to pull back, but Lydia makes a little sound of protest in the back of her throat and he is back on her in a second, devouring her mouth, kissing her with everything he has.

(They have only done this one other time before, but Lydia realizes that she has missed this.)

He holds her hand as he merges the kiss into something softer, sweeter, and when he pulls away, she is stunned by how unprepared she is to lose him.

(They've only done this twice, but Lydia realizes that she will miss it again.)

"Stiles—" she says, and he waits, but she can't finish talking.

"Bye, Lydia," he says, kissing her on the cheek as the sun dies behind his head. "It's been fun."

She sits in her car for too long, and by the time she shows up at Allison's to holler at her, it's dark. Lydia storms into her best friend's house, demands an explanation, and is greeted with a small smirk and the promise of a cheesy movie.

As Lydia settles into the couch, Allison's phone buzzes to life next to her.

_Stiles [8:47]: thanks, allison._

Well fuck.

* * *

 

Kira opens the door to Scott's house with a smile on her face so wide, Lydia is almost surprised she isn't split in half. She's wearing a santa hat on her slick black hair and lipstick to match, but Lydia doesn't see that for very long because Kira is ducking forward and forcing her into a hug.

"I'm so glad you're back!" she squeals, despite the fact that Lydia has only been a few hours away, and Kira had been all the way in New York.

"Me too," she says, patting Kira's back awkwardly before deciding to screw it and pulling her into a tighter hug. "How was your first semester?"

"Amazing," gushes Kira. "The people are so nice. The food is so good?" She looks genuinely concerned by this. "I mean, not college campus food, of course, but, like, the food in the surrounding areas. One day we decided to do this whole _tour_ of all the cliche tourist places in the city and it was _so_ much _fun_ — lots of walking, of course, and then—"

Lydia closes the door behind herself, as Kira seems too excited to do it, and wraps her fingers around Kira's wrist, tugging her deeper into the house, hopefully towards Allison.

"Lydia!" Scott says cheerfully, snatching the party bag from her fingers and dropping a smack onto her cheek. "I'm so glad you came!"

"Thank you," she says, feeling suddenly overwhelmed at the amount of affection that is being thrown at her. Scott sets down the bag and takes her coat, hanging it neatly in the hall closet before Allison swoops in, picks the bag up from the floor, and tangles her fingers around Lydia's, pulling her into the living room where the rest of their friends are milling around. There's a large table, piled high with cookies, and Allison sets Lydia's there.

"What flavor did you make?" she asks brightly, in lieu of a greeting.

"Triple chocolate hazelnut," Lydia replies. "You?"

"Pumpkin."

"It's December."

She shrugs.

"They taste good."

"LYDIA!" Isaac yells, and in a second she's being swept off the floor by a 6'2" golden retriever.

She pats him on the head and says, very sternly, "down."

Isaac sets her on the floor, grinning rakishly. "Sorry. I may have had a few too many rum and egg nogs."

"Don't let my mom hear you say that," Scott says from the corner of the room. When Lydia looks over to smile at him, her heart stops as she sees Stiles hovering uncertainly over Scott's shoulder, watching her. Their eyes meet for a moment. Lydia watches as his Adam's apple bobs nervously in his throat.

She is suddenly filled with a want that could not be tamed by the boys at school— not the one who pressed her against the wall of her dorm room, or the one whose bed she crawled on top of more than once when she was stressed out during finals. Her head buzzes with the memory of Stiles' lips nudging against hers, and how it had never quite been the same.

Lydia has spent the last few months _chasing_. So far, the something she's after has been elusive.

Meanwhile, Stiles is studying a spot on the wall as though it is the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

"I need a drink," she announces to Allison, who nods happily and jerks her chin towards Stiles.

"He got his bartending license over the semester— go ask him for something. I swear, he can make _anything_."

Of course. Of course it's Stiles.

"Of course," Lydia says, plastering a fake smile onto her face. Then she walks over to Kira, who is standing in the corner of the room talking to Malia. "Can you get me a white russian?"

"Why?" Malia butts in, frowning. "Just go ask Stiles."

"I would," says Lydia. "But I'm on this streak of not talking to him and I'd _hate_ to break it."

"I get that," Malia responds.

"Plus, you know, the whole high school rivalry thing."

"Isn't it time to set that aside?" Kira suggests tentatively. "I mean, when it comes down to it, aren't you two sort of… friends?"

Truthfully, Lydia has had this argument with herself _more_ than once. Usually when she is drunk. Usually when some guy's tongue is in her mouth. But, whatever. Details.

"We're not," she says rigidly, then smiles again. "A white russian, please?"

Kira comes back with her drink two minutes later, and when Lydia takes it from her hand, there is something settling within her gut that feels more like dissatisfaction than anything else.

She spends the most time with Allison, who flits around the party like she's the hostess, even though the party is at Scott's house. Lydia spends hours with her hand on her best friend's arm and her head on her shoulder, soaking in the overwhelming feeling of family that this house brings her. She had spent three long years of high school making herself at home in Scott McCall's house, and she cannot understand why, when she had left for summer, she had been so certain that she would never be here again.

He had texted her three days after she moved in to ask how she was doing, and that was when Lydia had realized that she would never be genuinely rid of Beacon Hills. There's something about this place that runs through her veins, despite her desperation to escape it and make something of herself.

Sometimes she thinks that this town, with these people, is the only place where she feels comfortable enough to make mistakes.

She sits in a circle with them, swapping cookies and laughing at Isaac in a santa hat and a feather boa, and Malia giving Scott a lap dance, and Kira trying to eat Cora's cookies because she's too nice but then ending up spitting them out while Danny takes a video of the entire thing for his snapchat story, and everything feels so much gentler than it has these last few months without them.

So much so that, when Lydia leaves the circle to go make herself another drink, she isn't really upset when Stiles follows her.

"What," she asks flatly, upon hearing his tentative footsteps entering the kitchen.

"Just seeing if you need any help."

She turns around and crosses her arms over her chest, frowning when she realizes how close behind her he is standing— she is face-to-face with his bright red Darth Vader Christmas sweater.

"What's the real reason?"

His eyes rake over her face desperately, like he hasn't been staring at her all night. Like she hasn't been _noticing_.

"Well, you sent Kira in to get your drink last time, and then Ethan, so all of my attempts to poison you have been thwarted."

"Don't bother trying," warns Lydia. "I have Scott test everything that comes out of this room."

Stiles shrugs.

"He's the only one with the antidote."

His eyes dart up to hers, and he must see the smile in them, because a small one grows on his mouth.

"I got a 4.0."

He doesn't seem upset.

"You beat me."

She smirks.

"Oh, I know."

"But whatever. I can catch up."

"There's no way."

"Wait and see."

The last time she'd seen him, she had been so sure that she was never going to talk to him again. But they're still standing so close, Lydia's face tilted up towards Stiles as though he is the only thing in this universe that is worth gazing at. She can't stop herself— can't quit counting his freckles because it's what she does. What she's always done.

"I guess I can occasionally check on your studies to make sure I'm demolishing your self esteem."

He walks around the table and begins making her another white russian. Lydia watches his hands carefully, maybe because it's less intimate than making conversation. Maybe because it's _more_ intimate, in its strange unfamiliarity. She is so used to throwing knives at him. She is not used to missing him.

"Here," he says, handing her the drink. "Also your cookies were gross."

"Yours tasted like ass," she says sweetly.

Stiles rolls his eyes as he leaves the room. Lydia watches him walk away and considers why she is still chasing something when she's relatively certain it's right in front of her.

Five minutes later, she's hovering by Allison's side again and trying not to act like she's listening to the story Stiles is telling about his orgo class. Fifteen minutes later, she's next to Scott and is straining her ears as Stiles animatedly paints a picture of a guy he'd hooked up with on the first week of the semester. An hour later, she's trying not to giggle as he vividly describes how disgusting the food in his dining common is.

Two hours after he pours her a drink, she finds him mysteriously missing from the circle of people playing spin-the-bottle and doesn't question why she was looking for him in the first place before she gets up and walks to Scott's room.

Stiles is sitting on Scott's bed, scuffing his foot back and forth across the floor and sucking on his thumb as he plays a game on his phone with the other hand. He doesn't look up when the door opens— at least not until Lydia knocks on the wall and says, "hey" in a very soft voice.

It's his turn to be startled, and he gapes at her for a few moments too long before he frowns and closes his mouth. Lydia shuts the door behind herself but lingers awkwardly near the wall, waiting for Stiles to speak.

"You're here to yell at me right?"

She blinks.

"What?"

"For kissing you. Back in August. "

Lydia shakes her head, unnerved.

"Stiles—"

"I know that was super out of line and, honestly, crazy fucking bold, but I—"

"Stiles," interjects Lydia, finally angry, "I'm not mad about you kissing me. As much as this _pains_ me to say…" she hesitates, "I don't kiss anyone I don't want to kiss, okay?"

His entire body seems to inhale.

"You wanted to kiss me?"

One of Lydia's shoulders slides up.

"Well. Maybe in that moment I did." He licks his bottom lip, looking like he's on the edge of something, and Lydia's skin crawls with the need to be near him. "Did you tell the story about that guy because you were trying to make me jealous?" she asks instead.

Stiles' cheeks tinge slightly.

"No. I'm allowed to tell stories at parties, Lydia." He pauses. "Did it work?"

She just shakes her head.

"No."

Stiles studies the lines of her expression before he carefully stands up.

"No, Lydia?"

"I hooked up with people at school too," she says, faux offhandedly.

He quirks a brow.

"So you have no right to be jealous."

"Exactly."

"Except you brought it up."

"I'm just curious to know if it was a tactic."

"It wasn't."

She sets her chin stubbornly and he's too close and she thinks he might have gotten prettier since the last time she saw him.

"I think it was."

"It got you up here."

 _No_ , she thinks. _You got me up here._

"I just came up here to—" Lydia says, stately, but Stiles just makes a small, disbelieving 'tch' sound with his tongue and drags his hand through his hair, looking so thoroughly disgusted that Lydia can't help but kiss him.

He's not surprised, she thinks, because he kisses her back immediately and dominatingly and too intensely. Her breath is stolen from her body as he kisses her, cold fingers stroking her cheeks, mouth a little too needy. She thinks she's probably _just_ as bad, because this aches, being able to kiss him again. Without questioning herself, she lifts his sweater over his head and throws it onto the floor, leaving it there with all the implications it holds.

Stiles backs them up to Scott's bed without asking, knocking her onto it and crawling on after her, his body sure and oddly familiar. Lydia shivers as he trails a hand from her cheek to her neck, grazing it along the side of her breast and down her torso until he finally reaches her waist and squeezes tight, sliding his hand around to grip her ass over her skirt.

His mouth drifts off of hers, down her neck, drowning himself in the skin there, his nose blowing hot air onto her as Lydia combs a hand through her carefully curled hair, pushing it out of the way. His hand is gentle on her breast but not altogether practiced; it's like he knows what to do but simply touching her is enough.

Her startled gasp when Stiles' hand slithers underneath her skirt is greeted by an answering moan from Stiles as he feels how wet she is, glancing lightly, teasingly over her clit before sliding a finger inside of her.

"Jesus," he says, looking up at her with wide eyes and bitten lips. "I swear to god I haven't been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to be inside of you since prom night. You'd feel so good, Lydia."

She swallows, thinking about the thing that she's been searching for. Thinking about how she hasn't been able to find anything that feels like playing with fire in the most enthralling way. Thinking that this is Beacon Hills, the town where it's okay to make mistakes— where she has people to fall back on.

"Do you have a condom?" she asks breathlessly. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then shakes them open and crawls down her body, pushing the crotch of her panties aside so that he can eagerly lick at her. Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. "Oh… oh god. _Stiles_."

The sound of her moaning his name seems to wake him up and he pulls away, looking around like a spell has been broken.

"Shit."

"What?" she asks, chest heaving.

"We're in Scott's room."

"And?" Lydia asks, voice high pitched.

"Scott would _kill_ me if I fucked you on his bed," Stiles says, his 'duh' implied.

"We'll wash the comforter," replies Lydia, squirming a bit impatiently at the sight of Stiles' wet mouth.

"If we leave right now and go somewhere else, will you change your mind?"

His voice and eyes are vulnerable despite the fact that Lydia is the one with her legs spread wide and her throat perpetually ready to whimper for him.

She shakes her head.

"No," Lydia whispers.

Stiles shoots off of the bed, jams on his darth vader christmas sweater, and bolts towards the door.

"Let's go," he says impatiently, when he turns around and notices Lydia still on the bed.

"You're still hard and I have a hickey," she points out.

Stiles glances down at his jeans.

"Right."

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Back porch?"

"Back porch," he agrees.

They tip-toe past their best friends and Lydia doesn't even think about ramifications when she is sitting in the passenger's seat of Stiles' car, forcing herself not to touch him and wondering how she was ever able to go four years of high school without realizing that Stiles Stilinski has a mouth like sin. Because know that she _knows_ , she can't get him out of her head.

He pulls over to the side of the road when she unbuckles her seat belt so that she can reach him, littering kisses down his neck, marveling at the way his cheeks flush pink.

Stiles fucks her in the backseat of his car with his pants only halfway off and her heels dig into the top of his ass and there isn't enough room but she doesn't think she will ever get over the flutter of his eyelashes against her skin as he quietly comes inside of her, his fingers ice cold on her body, his breath warm and soft, breathing a heartbeat into a girl who had previously fancied herself just empty enough.

* * *

 

The look on Allison's face can only be described as unsurprised.

"Again?" she says, crinkling her nose briefly before she squints her eyes towards the target and then lets her arrow fly. "Seriously, Lydia?"

She shrugs.

"I was tipsy."

"No you weren't."

"I was horny?"

"You were sleeping with that Freddie guy during finals," points out Allison. "It's not like you were desperate."

"Is there _no_ way you're going to let me get away with this?"

Allison releases another arrow into the target taped to a tree.

"I'll let you get away with it if you admit that you and Stiles have feelings for each other."

"Never," says Lydia, firm.

"I'll let you get away with it if you admit that you and Stiles would be great together and that the reason you've always been competitive is that you like being around each other."

"It has to have a _semblance_ of truth to it, dear," Lydia says, voice chipper.

Allison pauses to throw her an exasperated look.

"Lydia. Your voice shook when you told me."

"It's _cold_."

"Or you were nervous about what I thought."

Lydia pouts slightly, a little offended at Allison's far-too-accurate assumptions, but mostly annoyed with herself for not being able to put on quite as good of a show as she had wanted to.

"I think you're still drunk from the party."

"Are you going to hook up with him again?" Allison asks. "Because, if you are, there's something you should know."

"What?" Lydia asks, curious, and she can see the triumph in Allison's eyes before she finishes the question.

"So you are, then?"

Lydia backtracks immediately.

"No. Of course not. It was a Christmas gift."

Allison lets out a low whistle.

"That seems like an _awfully_ nice Christmas gift considering the fact that one year you gave him 'a rat for a rat' when you got him for secret santa."

"He loved that rat. He _cried_ when that rat died."

Allison smiles at the memory.

"Plus he always said he named him after you."

"I think Lucifer is just a few letters off, but it was a lovely sentiment."

The bow crunches against the dry grass as Allison sets it down and turns to face Lydia, her voice serious.

"Are you going to sleep with him again, Lydia?"

"No."

" _Lydia_."

"I promise," she says, raising her right hand. "We won't do it again."

* * *

 

(They do it again.)

 

* * *

 

Lydia's skin care routine has been almost the same since she was in middle school. It's a formula that had been perfected by her older sister midway through high school, and Lydia had adopted it without considering an alternative. She's eighteen and it hasn't changed much at all, but she's never stopped enjoying it. The smooth monotony, and the way she could take a few moments just for herself, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

It's dependable. And these last few days, Lydia hasn't been feeling like anything is dependable. Including her feelings. Including her own mind, which tells her that having sex with Stiles isn't a good call but also gives her incredibly graphic dreams of him every time she goes to sleep. She wakes up and can feel them down to her toes, and she feels like it's almost impossible to shake herself truly awake when the dreams seem to linger in her head for too long.

He's good. He's _too_ good. So good that she finds herself wanting to pick up her phone and text him and ask him for round three, so when there's knock on Lydia's front door as she's finishing up on her nightly regime, the hitch in her chest makes her eager. She knows who it is before she even gets down there, which is why she can't take her time running down the stairs with her naked face and her BHHS shorts and her sweater that slides off her shoulder to reveal the tank top strap underneath.

"Stiles," she breathes, pulling open the door, and there he is, standing in the moonlight with his hair pulled up in a million different directions, evidencing the fact that he's been raking his fingers through it repeatedly.

"Hey," he says, looking guilty and stressed. "Hi. I'm so sorry to just show up, I don't know what I'm thinking, I just… I was in my car and your house was right there and… I think it might still smell like you. Or else I'm just going crazy and can't stop thinking about that. Probably both?"

"Probably both," Lydia agrees, voice a little faint because the boy she's been thinking about for _days_ is standing on her front porch and she wants to force him onto his knees and smooth his hair out and watch him bury himself in her.

His eyes slide up and down her body, a little wildly.

"You were just about to go to sleep," he says, looking horrified. "Shit, Lydia, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."

"No," she says hurriedly. "No, I mean, I was about to go to bed but… it's okay."

They both fall silent. It's awkward. Lydia, far too aware of her mother hovering somewhere in the house, pads outside in her bare feet, shutting the door behind the two of them.

"Full moon," Stiles says conversationally, voice still a little agitated.

"Say what you came here to say or I go inside," threatens Lydia.

He licks his bottom lip, then shakes his head, mouth tensing upwards for a moment before he speaks.

"The thing is, Lydia, I really, really told myself that I wasn't gonna do this. But, like, I was wondering if maybe… I know this isn't possible, but I feel like sex with you… Okay, I've _had_ sex before. With multiple people. But I think I could like it better with you. I think it could be… just… something good, you know?"

"I don't necessarily think any sex I've had has been bad," Lydia begins, then hesitates before saying: "Even with you."

His lips tilt down a little bit. He beats his fist against his palm, squinting his eyes.

"Are you trying to tell me that you feel that way too in that stupid code of yours?" he asks, irked. "Cuz you can just say it."

She can't. She can't, because it's admitting the fact that she _likes_ him.

"Okay," she says slowly. "So we might be a little good at sex together."

His eyes bug a little bit.

" _Right?"_

"What are you proposing exactly?" she asks, eyes locking in his.

"I'm suggesting that we shouldn't let sex down by not doing it anymore."

Now that she's admitted that she doesn't mind sleeping with him, Stiles is looking far more relaxed, although his shoulders are still tense.

"That's the dumbest thing you've ever said to me."

"I must have said something dumber at some point."

"Nope," disagrees Lydia. "That was definitely it."

Stiles shrugs.

"Can't win 'em all," he says, but he looks agitated, and he's watching her extremely carefully.

"Well," she says, stepping closer, her hands clasped behind her back. "Despite that, I still think you should probably kiss me."

He peers down at her, looking slightly mystified.

"Yeah?"

Lydia shrugs nonchalantly.

"Mhm," she says slowly, as if she has all the time in the world to wait for him. Stiles' eyes pop. "If you're up for it, that is."

He rolls his eyes, hard, and it makes Lydia want to laugh until he presses his mouth against her lips and kisses moonbeams into her smiling mouth. His shadow crosses hers carefully and consumingly, and there isn't anything gentle about the way that he kisses her, but there is still something tender there.

Lyda tilts up towards him and lets herself drown in the smart mouth that had spent years driving her up the wall.

He still does. But maybe that's not such a bad thing.

* * *

 

Stiles kisses her after she sucks him off, his chest damp as she places her hand on it, feeling the rapid heartbeat that has become familiar to her through these past few weeks. She's almost surprised, because usually crawling up on the bed feels more like a walk of shame than actually emerging from someone's dorm room with last night's clothes still clinging to her curves. But Stiles just kisses her with a slow, lazy smile playing at his lips, and it feels like they have all the time in the world to just sit on his bed with the blinds drawn low and kiss each other.

Lydia knows better. She knows that there's a timer. And that's why she pulls away and begins searching the floor for her bra, her eyes dancing around the different corners of Stiles' bedroom as she looks. She'd been in here a few times in high school, and it's changed very little, but it still seems different now. Because she knows the stories behind some of the posters, and the All Time Low songs that are his favorites, and the fact that all of the trophies on his shelf are participation trophies that he and Scott have a matching set of.

Speaking of matching set, her bra is hanging off of one of those.

Lydia gets up, making to drag the sheet with her over to the dresser, but a sleepy voice stops her.

"Wait," Stiles says, voice a little slurred. "Stay."

Lydia turns around, frowning.

"What?"

"You don't have to leave right away every time we have sex. You can stay."

She looks at him like he's crazy.

"Stay here?"

He nods. Pats the bed, where he's pulled his comforter over himself.

"It's warm."

Lydia gets up and walks across the room.

"We don't… stay, Stiles."

She doesn't know why she's putting up a fight, because for some reason, there's a part of her that wants nothing more to curl up against him and find a whole new kind of intimacy.

He looks a little downcast at that. Picks at a loose thread on his comforter. Swallows a bit too hard.

"Okay," he says, letting her go, and it's his willingness to allow her to walk away that makes Lydia uncertain about it.

"I mean, I have to get home to my mom, and—"

"Yeah, no, I totally get it."

He looks so warm, and so pretty, and so _good_. She isn't used to getting flustered like this. She isn't used to this.

Lydia takes two steps forward and Stiles' head jerks up to look at her. She sighs, then brings the sheet back to the bed and says, "Move over. You can't just sit in the center like that."

He beams, sliding over a bit, something resembling awe gracing his features. She wants to trace the line of his nose with her fingers, but instead she allows him to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head on her chest. Lydia closes her eyes for a moment.

"If I stay, I need you to agree that Doc is the best of the seven dwarves."

"Bullshit," Stiles refutes clearly. "Doc is the _creepiest_ of the seven dwarves. You're clearly confused."

"He's _clearly_ the most intelligent."

"Right, so why is he living with six other guys and a fairytale princess with a bad haircut and a complexion that would make it impossible for her to leave the house? Something doesn't add up. I suspect treachery."

"You realize you're talking to a redhead, right?" Lydia asks, amused and a little offended on behalf of all those who have complexions which make it impossible for them to leave the house.

"Strawberry blond," replies Stiles, shrugging. "And hand me my phone, I'm texting the group chat and asking what everybody thinks."

Lydia practically throws it at his head.

"They're all going to agree with me because I'm _right_ , Stilinski."

"Yeah yeah," Stiles says, rolling up and off of her so that he can text. She misses the weight of him against her. "I'll see you in court."

"You're pressing charges on what grounds, exactly?"

"Stupid opinions for five hundred, Alex."

"Oh, please," she scoffs. "You're going to have to make a better argument than that."

She sits with her sheet-covered knees drawn up to her chest and listens to Stiles go on and on and on about how exactly he would sue her for having the wrong opinion about his least favorite Disney movie, trying not to smile too much at the way his arms swing wildly around when he speaks.

In the end, when she leans forward onto her knees and kisses him gently, her heart against her lips, she finds herself feeling glad that she stayed.

* * *

 

"What are you getting that for?" Allison says, mouth twitching upwards slightly as she notices the teddy that Lydia is holding in her arms. They're in line at Victoria's Secret, Allison clutching onto seven new pairs of "cheekiest" underwear, and Lydia hadn't thought about disguising her purchase because she doesn't hide things from Allison.

Usually.

"Myself," she says cavalierly. "Really, Allison. Do you need to be dating someone to buy lingerie?"

Allison throws her a sidelong glance, filled with annoyance.

"So you're buying a see-through nightgown just to wear for kicks around the house?"

"It's not _completely_ see through," points out Lydia, gesturing to the bra area. "See? Cute."

"Cute," agrees Allison. "But who's going to see you in it?"

Lydia's shoulder slides up elegantly.

"I was thinking of calling Freddie when I got back to school."

(Her stomach churns at the thought, but she doesn't say anything about it.)

"Okay," Allison says simply. "But if you're going to start dating him, I'm going to need final approval."

"Why? You didn't get my approval on these," Lydia says, rubbing the material of one of Allison's purchases between her thumb and index finger. "They're very gauche."

"And you're deflecting," responds Allison, strolling up to the newly opened register to purchase her clothes.

Lydia glances down at the teddy and thinks about what possible scenario she could wear it in front of Stiles without looking like she's trying too hard for _him_. And Allison would probably have some good ideas, too. But still, every time Lydia tries to tell her, she remembers the smug look of warning on Allison's face. And if she tells Allison, it becomes a _thing._ Not just the two of them, lost in their own world.

So she shuts her mouth.

* * *

 

Lydia wants to feel bad about it, she _does_ , but then she notes the smile on Stiles' face the first time she shows up at his doorstep in the morning instead of the middle of the night.

It's the one day it snows and his dad is at work so he takes his time with her, and his breath is loud and harsh as she rides him, scraping her nails down his chest, feeling _power_ when he comes, eyes never leaving her face. It's so intense that it makes Lydia's chest hurt.

The worst part is how she feels when she leaves and she wants to call Allison but she knows she can't.

There's plenty that she can't tell Allison. How she sneaks him into her house one time when her mom's asleep, and they're so, so quiet as they get each other off like the moment is glass— breakable with any sound.

And she wants to be able to tell Allison the way he cradles her sometimes, kissing the top of her head or her temple and being so gentle for just a moment that Lydia starts to feel like maybe this is less about orgasms for him and more about touching her in any way at all.

She wants to tell Allison about the night that she beats him at his favorite video game, and that he cooks for her even when she lies and tells him that she's in a rush, and that one night his dad catches her leaving Stiles' room and she panics and says that she was bringing him some school supplies and the sheriff thanks her and makes her stay for dinner and the two of them talk so quickly, so effortlessly, that Lydia knows she should feel broken for not having it, but instead she feels whole.

One time they fall off of Stiles' couch and he spits some of Lydia's hair out of his mouth, looking thoroughly disgruntled, and then he turns some of her hair into a moustache and asks her, very seriously, if he would look good as a redhead. It is something that Lydia _definitely_ wants to share with Allison, especially because she suspects that she might be falling in love with him, but instead of telling either of them that she bites her tongue and gives him a love bite on his left hipbone.

She wants to talk about how she goes to get oreos on the day that he fucks her from behind for the first time and when she comes back to his bedroom, she finds him asleep against his pillow. She wants to wake him up and laugh at him, but instead she slides into bed next to him, discards the shirt, and lies on her stomach, carding her fingers through his sleep-rumpled hair. He looks like a little kid when he's asleep— like the boy he could have been if his mom hadn't left him behind in a world that does nobody favors.

She thinks, stroking his cheek softly, that she's _glad_ to be a favor given to him by the world. If only for a while.

* * *

 

"I think you should come get me."

It's 2am, and now that they're done playing it cool, Lydia is suddenly impatient as she whispers into her cell phone receiver.

"What if I had been sleeping, Martin?" Stiles asks, voice teasing, but Lydia still answers with a moderate amount of annoyance, because Stiles being a smartass is holding her back from the true goal here.

"You weren't," she says dismissively. "Are you coming over or do I need to call someone else?"

"Yeah, no, I'm already out the door."

This time, she actually does smile. She walks out to the end of the driveway and waits for him in the tranquil peace of the evening, feeling light in a way has everything to do with the boy who is about to pull up to her and make everything better.

It's the last week of both of their breaks, and to be honest, Lydia can't believe they made it this long without being discovered, barring that one time they were almost caught because Scott came over to Stiles' house unannounced. Lydia had hid in the closet until he vanished.

But tonight, they have the cover of darkness to shield them from the reality of the world, so when Stiles pulls up Lydia hops into his car and presses a quick, chaste kiss against his mouth.

"Where are we going?" she questions as he backs down her driveway, pulling off to the left.

"Where do you wanna go?" says Stiles. "Cuz we're definitely not going there."

Lydia neatly flips him off and he grins, grabbing the hand that she is holding towards her and kissing her wrist before releasing her so that he can focus on driving again.

"What did you do today?" she asks as he speeds down the road.

"Played video games with Scott," he says absently. "Thought about yesterday."

Lydia smiles, looking down at her hands in her lap.

"Oh, did you?"

He nods, cheeky grin on his lips.

"Almost exclusively." It's ridiculous, how happy that makes her. "What did you do today?"

"I packed a lot," she says, then adds: "Thought about yesterday."

Stiles cocks an eyebrow.

"Have I always distracted you this much, or is it a new development?"

"Well," she says, musing, "I guess your terrible fashion sense and inability to do anything right has distracted me for quite some time. It's just new that I have something _positive_ to associate your mouth with."

He grabs his chest with his hand like he's clutching his heart.

"You wound me."

"Only fatally."

Stiles hangs a left and pulls into the woods, leading all the way down the path that goes to the Beacon Hills preserve. He parks the jeep, then gets out of the car and snatches a blanket out of the back, laying it down so that they can sit on the hood of the jeep. It's cold, but Lydia is bundled into her favorite coat and mittens, and Stiles takes her hand and they look over all the tiny lights of the town that traps them together.

"Do you think you're ever going to live here again?" Stiles asks, his eyes on the stars instead of on Lydia. She shakes her head.

"I hope not."

"It's not in that great big plan that you were chasing through high school?"

"Definitely not," she tells him.

"So what is?"

His voice is soft, making her wonder how badly he wants to know.

"An apartment. In a city. Maybe I'll have a cat."

"Don't get a cat," Stiles says. "Get a dog. Dogs are better."

"Cats are more self sufficient. I'm going to have a self-sufficient cat that doesn't need much attention, and then lots of plants that can take care of themselves. I'm not going to have time."

"Because you're going to be doing what, exactly?"

"Math," Lydia says, a little bit dreamily, and she hears Stiles laugh next to her. "So much math."

"Sounds gross," he says noncommittally. "The math part, not the apartment part. That seems fun."

"You're going to live with Scott," predicts Lydia. "In some city where you can do something with your useless criminal justice degree."

"I don't know," replies Stiles. "My dad is here. And my mom left us alone, and I don't… I don't know if I want to leave him alone too."

"Well, you can't stay here," Lydia says frankly. "It would be like being stuck."

"I'd be okay," he says quietly. "I think." He pauses. "Do you remember that day after my mom died when you caught me crying?"

Lydia closes her eyes, suddenly wishing that she could shut out the stars that are privy to every moment in her nights. She doesn't want them to witness this. It's just her and Stiles.

"I do," she says, wanting to lie.

"What were you thinking that day?" he asks her. Lydia doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything. "I always wondered." God, she does too, sometimes. When she really thinks about it. "I mean, what made you come in and sit with me in the first place? You never really liked me."

She thinks about his moles and freckles, illuminated by the stars, and she likes him _so much_. So much.

"I liked _this_ ," she confesses quietly.

His voice is a little rough as he says, "But it's over now. Isn't it."

She nods.

"It is."

Stiles swallows thickly, nodding to himself.

"Yeah."

She wonders why he never fights for her, but the look in his eyes urges her into an explanation.

"I've seen how this ends, Stiles," she says quietly. "And I don't want that. I don't want any of it."

"It doesn't end the same every time."

She thinks about her parents. About Jackson. About her older sister's fingers shaking drunkenly over the dial pad on her phone, and Lydia hadn't understood why she wouldn't stop sobbing because Lydia was twelve and boys were second to the mall and to mint chocolate chip ice cream and to raspberry lip smackers.

"It does."

"Ever think that maybe you're not always right?" he asks, an edge to his voice, razor sharp against the pieces of Lydia that are too exposed to him.

She rolls her head away from him, towards the moon.

"Remember when you didn't like me?" she asks rhetorically.

"No," he replies, resolute. There's a long silence that stretches between them. Lydia doesn't know what to do. So she just doesn't say anything, which would make it worse with anyone else, but Stiles knows exactly how to handle her, and maybe he always has. "What's that one?" Stiles continues, pointing at a constellation in the sky.

She feels a little relieved as she leans over and kisses his neck, her lips soft as she murmurs the name into his pale skin.

It's strange to not talk to him. She's gotten so used to sitting in bed with him and having long arguments and conversations and watching his fingers trace the lines on her open palm. But she can't talk about this— about how scared she is to let him go, about how desperate she is to keep him but she's truly too stubborn, because she shouldn't have been able to have him in the first place.

Lydia Martin takes what she wants, but she wasn't supposed to want Stiles Stilinski. And the sheer intensity of what that is makes her back away like the scared girl she is.

She knows it's hurting him. But she'd rather want him than have him, strangely enough.

So she walks away.

* * *

 

Seeing Stiles on the bed in her dorm room is strange. It's strange because she'd never put him in this context before, and it feels odd to mix him with the feeling of home that Stanford brings her. Lydia's side of the room is mostly pink, including the comforter that Stiles is sitting on, his body completely still as he stares at the stick in his hand, mouth gaping open.

There are two pink lines. Lydia knows, because she'd looked at it first. And then looked at the second stick. And then looked at the third stick. And then she'd called Stiles. Who is currently staring at the stick, his eyes a pretty whiskey color in the light of the four o'clock sun.

When he finally speaks, his voice is strangled and choked.

"I… I got you pregnant?"

Lydia shrugs, trying to remain calm because she is certain that Stiles won't be.

"It would seem that way," she says. "I checked multiple times."

"And the sticks all said you were… y'know. Pregnant?"

"Yes," whispers Lydia.

He's very pale— she's honestly a little worried that he's going to pass out, and he's just staring at her stomach like it is something strange and brand new. She wants to remind him of all the times that he'd pressed kisses against it, and the times that his hand had been heavy on it while he moved his fingers inside of her, and the way he would rest his head on it and let her stroke his hair. But she doesn't, because she understands. It's not the same. Nothing's going to be the same.

"And you're sure it's mine?"

She bites her bottom lip, flushing slightly.

"I haven't slept with anyone since I got back to school."

That's enormously embarrassing, because the only reason she hadn't was because she had found herself wanting Stiles every time anybody touched her. But she doesn't say that because she is already saying too much today.

"We didn't ever—"

"Condoms don't always work," she reminds him. "You know that. I know that."

His throat works for a few moments, and then he buries his face in his hands.

"Lydia. I'm so… I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

She shakes her head.

"No. Don't be."

"We're _eighteen_."

"Almost nineteen," she points out, because she's been over this. She's been over this too many times in her head. He's so pale, and despite the fact that she has told herself that she can go at it alone, she feels fear creeping into her bones.

"Stiles, you don't have to… you don't have to deal with this."

His head snaps up.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… if I keep this baby, my family has money and it'll be fine. I don't need you."

It feels wrong to say that. Her body feels like she's physically rejecting the words.

"And what's the other option?" Stiles asks, not looking like he wants an answer. "Would you… you know."

"Get an abortion?" Lydia finishes for him, seeing how uncomfortable he is. She sighs, rolling back a little in her desk chair. She's thought about this too. Maybe too much. "I don't know if I could."

His face tightens for a moment. Then gets more resolute.

"If you keep it… Lydia, I wanna do this with you. I'm gonna be there."

"That's what my dad said to my mom," she says drily. "I told you I know how this ends."

"Jesus Christ," he says angrily, finally reacting to something. "No, you are _not_ pushing me away because of that stupid idea of other people. Other people are not me. Other people are not _us_. We are our own goddamn story, Lydia, and fuck you for thinking that I wouldn't want to be in the life of a kid who is _my kid_."

"Your kid that you didn't want!" she reminds him, a little hysterical. "Stiles, if I keep this baby, this changes everything. Your whole life."

"So change it," he says fiercely. "Lydia, change it. It's yours, okay? You _have it._ But don't try to push me away, because I'm not going." He pauses, taking in the stunned look on her face, then creeps to the edge of the bed, sliding off and kneeling on the floor in front of her. Lydia gazes down at him as he reaches up to look searchingly into her eyes. "Lydia. This baby is _yours_. And it's us." Her breath hitches with the intensity of his words. "I'm not walking away from that."

Tears spring up in her eyes. She chokes them down, a little overwhelmed. When she had first begun to suspect that she was pregnant, her first thought had been fear and denial. And here Stiles is, getting news sprung on him and he's crouching on the floor in front of her, giving her his life to take.

"I don't know what to do," she offers, punctuating it with a watery laugh.

In a flash, he is off of the ground and is tugging her into his arms, pulling her into a tight hug. Her body shakes against his as he strokes her hair.

"It's gonna be okay," he promises. "I know this… this isn't what you wanted, but… I dunno. It's you, Lydia."

"So?" she asks, hiccoughing it into his shirt, which is now wet with tears.

"So you are the goddamn miracle of Beacon Hills. You'll figure it out. You're the one who always figures it out, okay? Every freaking time."

He moves her to the bed with him, dropping onto it, and holds her as she cries. Eventually, the sobbing stops a little, and he pulls her laptop over to the two of them and starts playing an episode of a show they used to watch back when they were sleeping together.

Stiles runs his hands through her hair when she puts her head in his lap and tries to get lost in a world that is just them.

And maybe she hadn't known how much she _wanted_ that world until now— until she had dropped this burden into his hands and he had accepted it without complaint. But now she's not just showing him the constellations. He is every star in their sordid sky.

* * *

 

"You're having a baby," Allison repeats, blinking rapidly three times.

"Mhm," Lydia says to the menu in her hands.

"With Stiles," Allison reiterates.

"Uh, yep," Stiles says, pointing to one of the pictures on the menu. "Does this look good to you guys?"

"Why are you guys acting so casual about this?" Scott demands to know, his eyes a little wild with amazement.

They're sitting at one of the several diners in Beacon Hills, crowded into a booth together, Stiles and Lydia on the same side, being watched by their two stunned best friends. Lydia gets it, of course. Allison and Scott hadn't even known that they were sleeping together, and now they're coming out and saying that they're having a baby. It's definitely weird.

What's weirder is that they'd driven here together, and sitting in the passenger's seat of Stiles' jeep, Lydia had felt like she belonged there. She can remember absolutely hating being in his car in high school, because usually it meant that they had to work on a project together, or Allison and Scott had ditched them to go spend time with each other. But now she curls up in the front seat, her forehead against the window, and tries not to laugh at the way he sings along with the radio.

It's cute. She hopes their kid plays air drums as well as her dad.

She also hopes their kid is a better driver than her dad, for the record.

"We've… adjusted," Stiles says, shrugging. "She's through the first trimester, we told our parents— that went great, by the way—" he adds sarcastically, "and now we just gotta wait for baby Stilinski to come."

"She's not going to have your last name," Lydia says. "For the _eightieth_ time."

"Why doesn't she get to have my name?" whines Stiles.

"Because your last name is _Stilinski_."

"How do you know it's a she?" Allison interjects.

"It's a she," both Stiles and Lydia say at the same time.

"Whoa," Scott breathes. "This is… weird."

"Can I ask a question?" inquires Allison. "When did you… you know."

"We were sleeping together during winter break," Lydia says nonchalantly. Scott's mouth slides open.

"Are you _serious_?"

Stiles shrugs.

"We're just really sneaky."

"You've been together this whole time and you didn't even think to tell us?" Scott says, looking horrified. " _Dude_."

Stiles and Lydia freeze, looking at each other.

"Um," says Stiles. "We're not." Allison and Scott blink. "We haven't been," he clarifies.

Allison is cringing, her judgemental eyes fixed on Lydia.

"May I ask… why?"

The two of them don't look at each other.

"Oh, you know," Lydia says, riffing because she honestly has no idea why they haven't talked about whether or not they should date. "Classes. Essays. Tests."

"Plus, uh, if we break up and it's awkward, that'd be bad for the baby. So we're sorta just… not doing anything."

Actually, that's a really good point.

"Oh," says Scott. "That's… interesting."

"That's ridiculous," Allison says flatly.

"What she said," agrees Scott, pointing to her.

"You two _like_ each other," Allison says, frustrated.

"Like is a strong word," Lydia deadpans. Stiles elbows her in the side.

"Shut up. You like me."

"Maybe," Lydia says primly. "Maybe not."

Stiles grins like he's won.

"Okay, Martin."

Lydia shrugs, turning back to the menu.

"So do you guys think the rubens here are any good?"

"You hate sauerkraut," points out Stiles.

"Apparently I don't today."

"Huh," he says. "Cool."

Allison's eyes drift back and forth between the two of them, and for a moment, Lydia's heart flies into her throat as she thinks about whether or not her best friend is going to say something that gives everything away— that knocks down the casual facade that she had so carefully put up. But instead, Allison just shakes her head and stares back down at the menu.

"So," she says, voice conversationally interested. "How did your parents take it?"

She doesn't know if she's more relieved that Allison had let them off, or more relieved that Stiles had come up with a perfectly valid reason for them not to do anything about them. Because he's right. They can't fuck up their friendship now. They've _just_ started being friends— how can they jeopardize that for something as simple as sex?

Sex, Lydia can get from anyone. But she's falling in love with Stiles, and there's absolutely nothing that is simple about that.

* * *

 

Stiles bursts into the waiting room with three minutes to spare, out of breath as he bursts through the door and promptly bumps into a wall. He blinks, shaking his head to clear it, and looks around to see if anybody had seen him. Lydia takes the opportunity to lower her magazine and slowly clap for him.

"Alright," he says, looking harried as he throws himself onto the chair next to her. "Don't be a dick, I told you I'd be late."

"Yes, philosophy class is far more important than finding out the sex of your baby," Lydia says sarcastically.

"I'd say so, yeah."

"Maybe bumping into walls at _alarming_ frequencies has concussed you, in that case."

"Good thing we're already in a hospital," he notes. "God, you're grumpy today."

"You would be too if you'd peed every thirty seconds."

"Pretty sure I'd handle pregnancy way better than you are." Upon seeing the murderous look on her face, he backs off. "Okay, maybe not." Lydia relaxes. Stiles' lips quirk up slightly at the ends. "So. Any news?"

Lydia considers this.

"My manicurist got engaged."

"Jesus, I mean _baby_ news."

"Oh," Lydia says, shaking her head. "No."

She glances over at Stiles, who is rubbing the back of his neck, a grimace on his lips. He's wearing a blue checkered flannel and dark red pants and a part of her just wants to sigh, staring at him. They've never gotten used to touching each other, but Lydia has to fold her hands tightly in her lap now, stopping herself from grabbing Stiles' hand and pressing it to her lips.

It's not like this is something she wants, or something that she's necessarily grateful for. But she's glad that she's doing it with him. If she has to do it with anyone, she'd definitely pick this idiot who had rammed himself into a wall when he'd walked into the waiting room.

"It's Maybelline," Stiles says, jerking Lydia out of her thoughts.

"What?"

"You're staring at me, so I'm assuming you're wondering whether I was born with it or whether it's Maybelline."

She's opening her mouth to ream him out for making the dumbest joke of all time when a nurse pops her head into the waiting room and calls Lydia's name. The two of them stand up immediately, Stiles smirking because he's certain he's won— she'll fix that later. Or maybe she won't, because he helps her up onto the table without her having to ask, and he doesn't even make a short joke about her, and honestly, it's almost a little bit sweet. Almost.

He anticipates her cringe when the lab technician puts jelly on her stomach, and squeezes her hand a little harder. Lydia feels her heart pick up speed before she forces herself to breathe.

Most of their doctor's visits have involved Stiles sitting in the stool next to Lydia, his fingers finding hers eventually, reminding her of the two kids that they had been on the playground together, and reminding her of the way he'd danced with her that one time Allison had made Lydia come to the winter formal as Stiles' date as a punishment for something that seems so stupid now, Lydia can't even remember what it was.

Stiles had spent the entire night making her feel miserable. Sometimes she wonders how they'd gotten from that night to an evening like last night, when she'd called him at two in the morning to tell him about one of her weird pregnancy dreams because she'd known he was awake— he's always awake.

"Do you two want to find out the sex of the baby?" the lab technician asks as she waves the wand over Lydia's stomach.

"Yes, please," she says, while Stiles nods next to her.

He spends these visits with wet eyes, usually, his eyes fixated on the screen, where they can see their baby on the monitor. Sometimes she'll catch him looking at her, but usually they save that for afterwards, when neither of them want to be apart from each other so they end up back in Lydia's dorm room, going over flashcards or watching a movie.

Today is no different. Stiles' eyes don't leave the monitor as they sit there, listening to their baby's heartbeat. His fingers find hers, one of those helpless things that neither of them can resist, and Lydia thinks, in that moment, that she had fallen in love with him so quickly that she would almost qualify it as effortless.

"And if you look right there, you can see that you're having a girl," the lab technician says, pointing on the screen.

Stiles' hand squeezes hers even tighter, while he lifts the other one to fist bump Lydia.

"Called it," he says as she slams her knuckles against his.

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"We both called it."

"I know, but I said it was a girl first."

"You didn't." She looks over at the lab technician. "Really. He didn't. It was me."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Oh, come on, Stiles. Don't be stubborn. Just admit that you're never, ever, ever, right."

His mouth widens in retaliation as Lydia takes the paper towel from the lab technician and begins cleaning off her slightly protruding stomach.

"I'm right _all_ the time."

"I'll give you two a moment," says the woman, leaving the room, and Lydia sits up on the table, stretching before she pulls her shirt down over her belly.

"I _distinctly_ remember one time sophomore year when we were in history class and you were talking about isolationism and you said that—" She tunes him out, leaning over the table so that she can smooth some hair away from his forehead and brush it out of his eyes. Stiles' mouth snaps closed and he blinks up at her, eyes a little wide. "Lydia?"

She runs her thumb over his bottom lip, watching as the ballerina pink color of her nail tugs at the redness of his mouth.

"I'm okay with this," she whispers, eyes still on his lips. "It's not how I wanted my life to go. It's not how I wanted to end up. But it's not… it's not a bad thing. I'm not letting it be a bad thing. And I think that's partly because of you. Because you come with it."

She leans down and presses a small, chaste kiss on his lips, his chin in her hands, her hair falling over her shoulder and sliding down onto him.

"Lydia," he says, voice strained when she pulls back. He seems a little breathless.

"Not now, okay?" she interrupts, stopping him. "Let's… make sure."

"But I'm—"

"Not yet."

He swallows down his words, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Okay," he agrees, brushing her cheek with delicate fingers. "But I do."

"I know," she admits. "I know, Stiles."

* * *

 

Lydia's least favorite lecture takes place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 11:15 to 12:05. She usually settles herself deep in the chair of her desk and pretends to take notes while actually filling out sudoku puzzles, because she can do this stuff in her sleep, but attendance is mandatory so she gets to waste her time three times a week in a 200 level class.

On this particular Friday, it had been especially difficult to get herself out of bed because of the essay she'd stayed up late finishing, and the result of this is her angrily texting Allison throughout the morning about how annoyed she is that she can't drink coffee.

She's in the middle of creatively, artfully listing all the ways she's going to murder Stiles for taking away her caffeine fix when she feels a light fluttering in her stomach.

Lydia pauses, glancing down at her stomach. These flutterings aren't exactly unusual— it's not like it's the first time. She returns her pen to sudoku and thinks nothing of it until she feels it again— like someone is tapping her from the inside. It's harder and stronger than usual, causing her to sit up abruptly in her seat, her body stiff.

For a moment, she sits in her desk, wondering if she can finish out the lecture. Then the baby kicks again, harder, and Lydia feels a smile tug its way onto her lips. She snatches up her notebook, shoves it into her bag, and quickly and confidently walks out of the lecture hall, already dialing Stiles' number.

"Hello?"

His voice is rough and low, growly with sleep, which just makes her heart beat a little bit faster in her chest.

"The baby's kicking me."

"You mean the flutters?" he asks, yawning.

"No," Lydia says, shaking her head as she places a hand on her stomach. "I mean… really kicking. I think you'd be able to feel it if you were here— she's going _hard_."

"Shit, really?" he says, now sounding more awake. "Lydia, that's amazing."

"Get your ass out of bed and get over here," she says eagerly.

"What if she stops?"

" _Speed_ ," Lydia suggests, then promptly ends the call. "Okay, baby girl. If you feel the need to drive your daddy insane by not kicking for him, I'd be completely fine with that. Just for the record. Do what you need to do, alright?"

The baby kicks again, a small, comforting jab that makes Lydia's eyes prickle with tears that she stubbornly brushes away. She absolutely doesn't need Stiles making fun of her for crying again. Granted, last time it had been because her tea spilled and she'd probably deserved it, but _still_.

She's Lydia Martin. She has a reputation to uphold.

* * *

 

It's only been thirty-five minutes since Lydia had started studying, but she already knows that she's barely going to get anything done. She's distracted today. Her phone is buzzing repeatedly on her desk, lighting up with the group chat that's just Lydia, Allison, Scott, and Stiles. She's also have a conversation with Allison via snapchat, and not even the soothing piano music that she plays when she studies is able to keep her on track today.

After fifty minutes, she finally gives it up and closes her laptop.

It's April, the first warm day, and Lydia pushes back from her desk with a long suffering groan. She's going to be ending her pregnancy in the hottest months of the summer, which is something that she isn't looking forward to at all, but right now, all she wants is a nap and something to fulfill her sweet tooth.

Deciding, she snatches up her car keys and waves goodbye to her roommate before heading out into the bright sunshine of the Stanford campus. Stiles' school is only thirty minutes away, and although he spends more time on her campus than she spends on his, she still knows the way reasonably well. She speeds through the midday traffic and ends up at his dorm room in record time, knocking insistently on the door after being let in by a student passing by.

The door swings open, revealing Stiles standing there with a look of surprise on his face. His eyes slide down to her stomach, as if he's checking to make sure everything is okay.

"You seem to be getting pregnanter these days."

"You really felt like now was the right time to quote Juno at me?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely."

"I hope this kid has better people skills than you do."

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks.

"I want ice cream," Lydia announces, pushing past him and walking into the room. He closes the door, frowning.

"What?"

"I'm craving ice cream," she reiterates. "Can you go get me some?"

Stiles blinks, shaking his head.

"Did you just drive thirty minutes to make me get you ice cream instead of just eating it on your campus?"

"Mhm," Lydia says brightly.

"That's… ridiculous."

"Mhm!" says Lydia again.

Stiles continues to look at her like she's crazy.

"Weren't you studying?"

"I was."

"And instead you decided to bother me," he says, a small smile on his face. She chooses to ignore it; chooses to ignore the way it makes her heart tumble for him.

"If I have to suffer through insane cravings, I really feel like you should too."

He slides one shoulder up.

"Okay. That's _kind_ of fair."

"Chocolate please," Lydia tells him, plopping onto his bed and toeing off her shoes.

He shakes his head, looking like he's not quite sure how they got here.

"Ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, turning around to start searching his pants pockets for his keys.

"You should transfer to Stanford next semester," suggests Lydia, sliding under the covers on his bed and stretching out on the pillow. "That way I can just walk over to your dorm room instead of having to drive thirty minutes to make you get me ice cream."

Stiles' body goes rigid for a moment from where he is crouched on the floor.

"Um," he says. "I was thinking that maybe I wouldn't live in a dorm next year."

She likes the way his sheets smell. She's falling asleep in them already, snuggled up against the hoodie that he'd had on his bed. Lydia wraps it in her arms, pressing her nose to it, and when Stiles turns around, she knows that's the first thing he sees. Somehow, she can't find it in herself to care.

"Where would you live?"

"I was thinking… in an apartment. With you."

He looks like he's nervous, but his eyes are still soft and tender, staring at her in his bed.

"You want to live together?"

"You, me, and… y'know. The kid."

She smiles a little.

"We'd _kill_ each other."

"Nah," he says— he looks like he genuinely believes it. "We wouldn't, Lydia."

She suddenly feels something strange creeping into her stomach at how earnest and how nervous he is simultaneously. She doesn't know what to do, looking at him looking at her with all of this hope in his eyes.

Except she does know what to do, because now that he's said it, Lydia suddenly can't see herself doing anything else next year.

"Okay," she murmurs, nuzzling his hoodie a bit. "That sounds okay."

A bright, brilliant beam stretches out across Stiles' mouth. He gives a little laugh, looking at the ground.

"Awesome," he says, then darts forward to sit on his bed with her and hug her. "Did you know that you're one of my favorite people?" he says quietly.

Lydia's breath catches. She tilts her head into his neck, smelling soap and deodorant and home.

"Is it because I'm an incubator for your spawn?" she inquires lightly, teasing.

"No," he says, so sincere. "It's cuz you're one of my favorite people." He's off the bed in a second, all the way to the door by the time she can even begin to gather herself. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Don't fall asleep on me, or the ice cream will melt."

She falls asleep, but she wakes up two hours later to find Stiles having a full-fledged conversation about Marxism with her baby bump. The way he teases her about not being able to stay awake is completely worth it when she gets to hear how quiet his voice gets when he thinks there's nobody around to see him give every bit of his heart to the thing that they created together.

* * *

 

"You've met me, right?" Lydia says, buckled into the passenger's seat of Stiles' car. "You _know_ I don't like surprises."

Stiles flicks on his turn signal with a minorly annoyed glare set onto his mouth.

"Just shut up and let me do something nice for once," he complains, turning onto another street. "I'm not gonna do something terrible to you."

"Like stealing my clothes out of my locker during gym? No, that's unheard of."

"It was one time!" he groans. "Can you let it _go_?"

"Never," says Lydia primly. "You took my deodorant."

Stiles full-out snorts at that, slapping his hand over his mouth when he sees the look of fury on Lydia's face.

"Well, I promise that this is nicer than that," he says solemnly. "Trust me."

"Not as far as I can throw you," she mutters under her breath, which Stiles certainly catches because he lets out another chuckle.

"So… not at all, you mean?"

"I mean, I've never tried, but… yes, exactly."

"Fine," says Stiles shortly. "Last time I ever do anything helpful."

"What do you mean _helpful_?" They turn onto another street, and that's when Lydia catches sight of the ferris wheel off in the distance, brightly lit up and flashing colors. "Are you taking me to the fair?"

He sighs heavily, looking as though her question has put the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Jesus, Lydia, you couldn't just let me surprise you?"

"I'm going to ask this for what is hopefully the last time— have you _met_ me?"

"No, you were impregnated by my clone."

"Are you going to tell me why you brought me to a fairground or are we just going to get out of your car and live the cheesy teenage romance that I'm pretty sure you got to have in high school with somebody else?"

He pulls the car into a parking spot and kills the engine. When he turns to her, his cheeks are illuminated by blue and red lights, making them look hollow and delicate in the darkness of the evening.

"We were texting a few days ago and you were talking about how you felt left out because everybody was drinking and partying and you couldn't do that stuff anymore, and—"

"No I wasn't," Lydia interjects, cutting him off.

"Okay, so I read between the lines," Stiles says, exasperated. "Whatever."

It doesn't matter that he'd read correctly. Lydia squares her chin, glaring over at him with a hard look on her face.

"So you decided to kidnap me for a night of watching acne-ridden teenagers eating fried food that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole?"

"First off, you're _definitely_ sharing a fried dough with me," says Stiles stoutly. "That is not optional. And secondly… well…"

He trails off, and Lydia's in the midst of giving him a puzzled look when she hears something on the window behind her. She startles, and lets out a little shriek when she turns around and sees two warm hands pressed against the window on her side of the car, a nose squashed against the glass.

" _Allison_?"

It takes Lydia promptly one second to unbuckle her seatbelt and fall into the arms of her laughing best friend.

"You're so big!" Allison gasps excitedly, pulling back to look at her. "I mean, I saw you on facetime, but it's not the same."

"Hey!" says Scott warmly, grabbing Lydia from Allison's arms and pulling her toward him. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Scott," she says, wiggling out of his tight bear hug for fear that he will crush her baby.

"And how's my niece?"

Lydia rolls her eyes fondly.

"She's doing great. What are you two doing all the way down here?"

"We came for the weekend," Allison says like it's nothing. "Stiles said that you weren't feeling great, so we decided to come cheer you up."

"The whole weekend?"

"We're getting mani pedis tomorrow," promises Allison. "I already booked the appointment at that place you like."

In that moment, Lydia can't think of anything in the world better than getting her nails done with Allison. She looks over at Stiles, feeling a little helpless in her gratitude. He's watching her with something akin to hope in his eyes, so when she grabs his hand and pulls him to her, it doesn't feel out of place. It feels like exactly the right way to say thank you.

Stiles stares at their hands, letting out a long breath through his nose, and that's when Lydia realizes that they've never really held hands outside of just the two of them before. They haven't walked around in public with their fingers entwined, or even been around their friends with their hands clasped together.

Instead of making her pull back, the realization makes Lydia hold tighter. She tugs Stiles into the park, allowing him to pay for her ticket as if it is a date. And, in a way, maybe it sort of is. Allison wins the baby a stuffed animal, presenting it to Lydia with a bright smile on her lips. Scott and Stiles get matching airbrush tattoos of cherries, which Stiles thinks is hilarious. Scott goes into the funhouse with Lydia while Allison and Stiles take on the bigger roller coasters, and Lydia tries not to be jealous even though she doesn't care for roller coasters anyways.

When they meet up again after Stiles and Allison have had their fill, Stiles' voice is hoarse from screaming.

He grabs her hand immediately when he reaches her; Lydia sees Allison smack a kiss on Scott's lips and thinks that this is what they could have had in high school, if she and Stiles had been able to be around each other for longer than two minutes without getting into an argument about something. It would have been nice, Lydia thinks.

Suddenly, nostalgically, she wishes for more time. More time for Stiles, to learn him, to grow with him. Because they're about to be thrown into this enormous thing together, and it's going to take over their whole lives. And, really, what Lydia wants hasn't changed since January. She wants Stiles. Just the two of them, figuring each other out after putting up a fight for such a long time.

"So," says Stiles, oblivious to the reason Lydia is staring at him curiously. "Um, I did some research and found out that you can go on the ferris wheel when you're pregnant. So I thought we could all go up together."

"That sounds great," Scott says happily, tugging Allison in the direction of the ferris wheel. She follows easily, leaning her head briefly on his shoulder as they walk ahead.

"Ready?" Stiles asks Lydia, making to follow them, but she squeezes his hand tighter, bringing him back to her. "What?"

"First of all," she begins, "please never surprise me again."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Noted. You're wrong, though."

"That wasn't a—"

"You're still wrong."

She ignores this.

"And secondly, thank you."

He blinks.

"Oh. Yeah. You're welcome."

"I mean it, Stiles. I didn't even know I needed this."

He finds her other hand with his and leans his forehead against hers, getting so close that her heart begins thumping erratically against her ribcage. Behind him, the fairground is full of people that they don't know, full of smells and sounds and noises, but Lydia thinks that the most riveting thing in the entire vicinity is Stiles' amber colored eyes.

"Lydia, let me—"

Fear seizes her, ripping through her suddenly, and her insides ice over at the idea of hearing what he wants to tell her. It's irrational, and selfish, and too much. But she stops him. She cuts him off.

"I want to share fried dough with you," she says truthfully. "And I want you to kiss me on top of the ferris wheel."

He closes his eyes.

"You still don't wanna hear it?"

"Everything's changing," she whispers. "And you're one of my favorite people too, Stiles."

Stiles nods— mostly to himself. Kisses her on the nose.

"After you have the baby we're never gonna leave the house again, though, right?" he asks hopefully. "I just bought, like, a bunch of new sweatpants."

"Oh, absolutely," agrees Lydia. "You're never going to leave, and I'll be out at the bar all night. That's how this is going to work."

"I'm glad we're establishing the rules now," says Stiles conversationally. "We should lay the ground rules early so that there's no confusion."

"We should probably name her first," Lydia reminds him.

"I already picked a perfect name," Stiles says nonchalantly. "It's Zelda."

"Like the video game?"

"Yep. I was definitely thinking about her when we conceived that baby, so we should probably give credit where credit is due."

"Oh, is that why you came so quickly?"

His mouth gapes open in horror. Lydia licks her bottom lip and wiggles her eyebrows at him, leaving him to watch her walk away, her hips swinging, her hair flipped over her shoulder as she goes.

* * *

 

Lydia is panicking.

However, she's hiding it from Stiles, because he is currently half of the reason she is panicking, and that half is watching his tongue get at the lollipop he's sucking on and wondering why her panties are so uncomfortably damp.

She's heard of women becoming horny during pregnancy, but she had never thought it would happen _right_ when she and Stiles were supposed to be studying for finals. And she had sort of assumed that she would take care of it with her vibrator and be done with it.

Except Stiles Stilinski is right there, and he's the one who got her into this situation in the first place, and he's got a mouth like sin, and despite the fact that Lydia hasn't felt sexy in months, there's something about the way he looks at her that makes her feel like she could do anything. Be anything.

"You're panicking."

His voice is wry as he shuffles through the flashcards that he's been quizzing her on all night, eyes tracing the words that Lydia had carefully written when she had been far less distracted by the piece of Stiles' hip that is peeking out underneath his shirt.

"I'm not panicking," she fibs immediately, but Stiles throws a flashcard at her from where he is lying sprawled across her bed, and Lydia throws him a seething look in return. "You could have given me a paper cut."

"And the world would have ended," he deadpans. "Seriously, Lydia, what are you panicking about?"

She weighs her options.

"Um," she says. "Finals."

"Finals?"

"Mhm."

"Why? You're gonna be fine. You always are."

"I know," she says without thinking.

"So..."

"So?"

"So why would you be panicking about finals?"

"Oh," says Lydia. "Right."

He sits up in her bed a little bit, squinting at her, and that's when he darts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. Involuntarily, Lydia's eyes flicker down to watch, and she rubs her thighs together, desperate to be touched the way he hasn't touched her since before she found out she was pregnant.

"Oh," he says, as though it is suddenly very clear. "Oh."

She continues to panic.

"Stiles, you don't have to—"

"No," he says. "I got you pregnant. And this is one of the… side effects. Right? Being turned on?"

Lydia mashes her lips together. Nods, very seriously, as if they're not talking about whether or not he should get her off.

"Right. A side effect."

"So it's my fault. I should do something about it."

Oh god. He's going to destroy her.

"How do you know I want you to?" challenges Lydia, lifting her chin as he slips off of her bed and gets on the floor in front of her, on his knees, staring up at her.

"Well," he says slowly, rubbing his thumb contemplatively across his bottom lip. Then he sucks his index finger between his lips, wetting it, and Lydia's mouth falls open, her clit pulsing between her legs. "I kinda think you do."

She's wearing a light cotton dress, pink and summery, with spaghetti straps. Stiles' hand slides under it without much preface, and he sucks in a breath when he feels how wet she is already. For a moment, he brushes his fingers reverentially over her folds as she spreads her legs to the arms of the chair and scoots up to the edge.

"I was supposed to quiz you," she says, already winded as he brushes his thumb against her clit. "I was supposed to _god_ … to quiz you."

"I was thinking that instead of that, I could just eat you out," he suggests casually. "Cuz I think that might be better use of both of our time."

He slides a finger into her determinedly, and Lydia clenches around him, somehow feeling emptier now that a part of him is inside of her. Stiles is smirking; Lydia wants to tell him that it isn't because of _him_ , but in a way it is. It's the way he'd read her flashcards in a low voice, and the way he'd smiled when she got them right and sneered the one time she missed an answer, and the way his fingers are so long and kobby inside of her body.

It's the way he fits.

She comes loudly, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it, and it's fast because he knows exactly how to work her body. She feels hypersensitive to everything that he's doing to her— extremely aware of the way they just go together. She keeps her eyes closed for a few moments after, and she almost misses the cocky grin on his mouth when he pulls back. But it's something she has begun to adore; she forces her eyes open to see the look on his face as he peers up at her. It's one of the pieces of him that she has tucked away inside of herself to keep no matter what happens to them in the future.

Lydia has collected little parts of Stiles' self and taken them into herself, and that's what has made her realize that maybe his soul is made of the same stuff as hers is.

Maybe it has been all along.

* * *

 

"Look, this is called the deluxe _journey_ kid carrier 2.0. We need this. We need this for our baby."

Lydia turns around to see Stiles holding up a box with an enthused smile on his face, his eyes bright with hope as he balances the box in his hands.

"We already got a backpack thing from Scott's mom at the shower."

"Yeah, but this is called the deluxe journey kid carrier 2.0. Like, where's your baby goin', Stiles? On a _journey_. One ring to rule them all. Find all the horcruxes. To infinity and beyond."

"I'm surprised you didn't throw a Star Wars reference in there somewhere," Lydia notes lightly as she takes the box from his hands and places it back on the shelves. Stiles sighs heavily, trailing his fingers on the edge of the box as Lydia pulls him away.

"It was on its way before you crushed my spirit."

She pushes him forward with the hand that's not holding her list and pulls him deeper into Babies R Us, determined to not make this an overwhelming trip. Lydia's pretty sure Stiles would get lost in here without her, but she's got a list to keep them both on track.

"What about Violet?" Stiles says as Lydia sneaks nipple butter into the carriage, hoping he doesn't see it.

"Where did you come up with it?"

He winces.

"Uh, history books?"

"Oh really?" she says skeptically.

"Alright. Me and Scott watched The Incredibles last night."

"Mhm."

"Whatever. It's still a good name."

"I'm not naming her after a cartoon character with confidence issues."

"She learns to overcome them! Don't you want our daughter to learn to overcome the obstacles in her life?"

"Like having you for a father? Absolutely. Like having a name based off of a character from a sub-par Pixar movie with scientific inaccuracies? No."

Stiles' mouth gapes open.

"Sub _par_?"

"That's your takeaway from what I just said?"

"I'm ignoring the first part on account of the fact that you once told me, and I quote, 'you're one of my favorite people.'"

"Ugh. If I'd known you were going to use it against me for the rest of our lives, I wouldn't have said it."

Her insides freeze at the words, but Stiles doesn't seem to want to pursue them— his shoulders tense for a moment, and then he releases them and moves on, clearing his throat.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you. I don't make the rules."

She hums in response, ticking the nipple butter off of her list.

"Did you want to find a glider for the nursery?"

"I was thinking that instead of that, we could get, like, a black leather massage chair."

"I'm not going to nurse in a black leather massage chair, thank you very much."

She doesn't much feel like nursing in the first place, but Stiles' frantic phone calls about it at three o'clock in the morning a few weeks ago had managed to convince even her. He's spent the past several months going on insane research spirals when he is supposed to be asleep. Eventually Lydia had made him call Scott instead of her, but not before he convinced her to breastfeed and to try cloth diapers to save money.

Although she's almost positive that she's going to change her mind about the cloth diapers, because she'd agreed when she'd been half asleep, and she'd rather just spend the money, to be honest.

"Which reminds me, you wanted to exchange the nursing cover you got because you said it was, and I quote, 'tacky.'"

"Why would _anyone_ get me an orange and blue nursing cover?"

"Because they know I like the Mets!"

She can't really remember who had given them the nursing cover at the small baby shower Allison and Lydia's mom had thrown them last week, but she's thinking of rescinding their thank you card because, really. Whoever had done that _has_ to have known it would create some sort of conflict.

"You're not the one who has to wear orange and blue," she tells Stiles. "When you're the one who's nursing, you can decide what you wear."

"Just keep it. Just use it in the apartment."

She considers this for a moment, then takes off down the aisle, her heels clicking as she says, "No."

He chases after her, bumpily pushing the carriage along the brightly lit linoleum floors.

"Have you ever considered saying yes to something that I ask for?" he inquires, bothered.

"Once," Lydia says, snatching up a onesie that she thinks is cute and throwing it into the carriage. "A _long_ time ago."

"Lydia."

He blocks her in with his body, eyes latching onto hers and staying there. She feels nervous flutters in her stomach that have nothing to do with the baby, but Stiles doesn't move away. And he's too close to her; it would be so easy to reach up and just kiss him the way she constantly finds herself wanting to do.

"Let me pass."

"Keep the dumb nursing cover," he urges quietly.

His lips are lingering too close to hers, head dipped towards her body so that he can peer at her through long lashes. Lydia wants to nudge her lips closer to his and connect to him the way that feels like coming home, but she can't bring herself to look away from his eyes anyways.

"Okay," she whispers. "Fine."

A bright, brilliant beam stretches across Stiles' lips.

" _Fuck_ yes," he says, pumping his fist in the air and beginning to do a strange victory dance that involves too much hip and his hand on the back of his head as he pumps the other arm back and forth through the air.

She watches him skip down the aisle, dancing backwards so that she can see his face, and it strikes Lydia that she cannot wait to see him every single day of her life.

"I was thinking Émilie," Lydia announces, following him. "Like Émilie du Châtelet."

"Who?"

"A physicist. During the age of enlightenment."

"Veto. I want to be able to pronounce my own child's name, thank you very much."

"That shouldn't be a prerequisite."

He chuckles, not commenting when her hand covers his on top of the carriage he's pushing.

"Oh yeah?" he throws back. "Then let's revisit some of the names on my _long_ list of video game characters."

Oh, damn it. She'd just gotten him off of that.

"Call it a draw?" asks Lydia hopefully.

"Yep. Thought so."

* * *

 

Stiles is stroking Lydia's hair when she wakes up, his fingers gently smoothing it away from her forehead. It's a little confusing, mostly because she doesn't know why he's in her bedroom in the first place, but that's not the first thing she thinks about. The first thing she _really_ thinks about is how warm it would be if he were in this bed with her.

Lydia has never liked the cold weather. She's not a fan of tights, she doesn't like how chapped her lips get, and sweaters often ruin the aesthetic that she's going for with her dresses. But one thing she does love about the winter is getting to bury herself underneath her covers and just stay there, maybe with a book, or with an album she likes to listen to.

Which is definitely not an excuse for why she'd had to take a nap today, because it's the middle of summer, but it's the excuse she's ready to give Stiles.

"You okay?" he asks, seeming amused. "Your mom says you never nap."

Lydia blinks twice, adjusting to the light of the early evening.

"My mom?"

"She called me over to watch you."

Her eyes narrow in annoyance.

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I know," Stiles says, laughing a bit. "But apparently your mom's going on a date tonight, and she thought it was weird that you were napping so she wanted somebody here when you woke up. Makes sense, yeah?"

Lydia frowns.

"No."

Despite how disconcerted and annoyed Lydia is, she still takes Stiles' hand and places it against her stomach where their baby is currently karate chopping her.

"Oh," he says, sinking onto the floor in front of the bed and just keeping his hand there. He reacts this way _every_ time. Sometimes Lydia thinks he's the one with the crazy baby hormones.

(Sometimes she realizes just how much he loves her when he's sitting in front of her, gabbing at the baby like she can actually hear him and comprehend him, and Stiles' eyes are so soft as his hand gently strokes over her stomach.)

"You should just get in bed," Lydia suggests, trying not to sound as hopeful as she feels. There's this image in her head of her and Stiles and the baby all lying together under the covers, a family, a _real_ one, and in her sleepy state, it is overwhelming to Lydia. "It's warm in here."

"Are you going to kick me?" Stiles questions seriously.

"I'm ninety three percent sure that I won't."

"Good enough," decides Stiles, and he stands up, climbing over her on the bed so that he can get onto his side. He tucks his body around hers naturally. It feels like he's defending her from the world, somehow. Like his body dipping into hers is the best shield she's ever had against heartache.

Which is crazy. It's insane. She knows that because he is the deliverer of heartbreak, and here she is, inviting him into bed with her.

But it's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and it's summer break, and the air conditioning is cranked all the way up, and she just wants him. She just _wants_ him.

"I hope my mom calling you over didn't derail any of your amazing plans for tonight."

"New plan: I'm gonna order pizza and we're gonna eat it."

Lydia smiles, even though he can't see it.

"I bet that's the same plan."

A pause.

"Ya got me."

"Mhm." He kisses her shoulder. She sighs. Takes a moment, enjoying the way he feels against her. "There's still so much we have to figure out."

"Like what?" Stiles asks.

"Like… who's going to be the good cop and who's going to be the bad cop?"

"I'm the bad cop. Have you seen how terrifying I am?"

"Stiles."

He laughs sheepishly.

"Okay. I'll let you have it."

"And how are we going to do holidays? Will we switch off every year, or will we each choose which holidays mean the most?"

He's quiet when he says, "I wouldn't mind spending Christmas with you."

"And thanksgiving?"

"And any holiday ever."

She feels like she might start shaking if she thinks about this too long.

"Ballet? Gymnastics? Figure skating? Piano lessons?"

"I notice you didn't say anything about sports."

"I spent all of high school sitting through Jackson's stupid lacrosse games. I don't love her enough to go through that again."

His deep, low laugh shudders out against her neck.

"Ballet _and_ figure skating. Like her mom."

"What if she's a klutz?"

"No idea where she'd get that from."

"I _know_ we've talked about your propensity for bumping into doors," Lydia points out. Stiles is silent for several moments. "What?"

He takes his time answering.

"Who do you think she's gonna be more alike?"

Lydia closes her eyes.

"I don't know."

"She could have any of our traits. She could be this combination of us. Isn't that crazy to think about, Lydia? We made a _person_. Someone who's gonna… I dunno. Eat and sleep and sneeze and have a favorite color and go to middle school and learn how to drive and get married one day and maybe even make another person." He hesitates, voice cracking as he says, "We _did_ that. She's ours."

Her eyes swim with tears.

"I want her to have that thing you have."

He chuckles.

"Specific."

"I can't describe it," she admits.

"What's the closest thing to it?"

She only answers because Stiles sounds genuinely curious, and his fingers are warm as they curve over her hip.

"Belief," Lydia whispers into the air.

Stiles breathes out shakily and shudderingly.

"God," he murmurs. "Lydia, can I—?"

He moves in to kiss her, but she is overwhelmed with something else; with the heaviness of the moment. Instead of letting him kiss her, she grinds her ass against him, slowly and purposefully, in a way that lets him know what she wants.

Stiles' breath catches in his throat. It makes Lydia smile, emotion prickling at her roughest corners. She pulls her shirt over her head without much pretense, alright with being bare with him in every way but one. Cold fingers brush over her spine before they move up to the clasp of her bra, undoing it and letting it slide down her arms. His hands travel to her sensitive breasts, so much more swollen than they usually are, and Lydia closes her eyes as he gently strokes her nipples.

It occurs to her, as he presses kisses against her shoulders, that she doesn't have to tell him to be careful. He just knows.

The rest of their clothes come off in a flurry of slow, never ending movements. She thinks, strangely and in a detached way, that she likes being naked with him. Likes being bare. There isn't enough time, but they have every moment for the rest of their lives. Stiles' hands are freezing against her bed warmed skin, but his tongue is hot on her body. She loves him, but she has always hated him.

When he slides into her, he's so much bigger this way that Lydia actively gasps out loud. His answering sigh makes her shiver; makes her think of water sliding down a frosted window pane, parting the elements.

One of his hands is on her breast, the other on the swell of her stomach, and still Lydia thinks that the most intimate part of this moment is his voice in her ear. Quite and vulnerable and _hers_. He's said it before. She knows. She knows he's hers.

He's never been inside of her without a condom, and it feels so incredibly good that Lydia can't help the tears that prickle at the corners of her eyes. It washes over her in an overwhelming wave of want; they are their most basic, their most essential. Stiles is so deep, filling her so much that she is overwhelmed, and yet she still wants more of him. She wants something that she has never allowed herself to want— not with anybody.

"You feel so good, Lyds," he murmurs sweetly, and she covers his hand with hers and squeezes tight before beginning to stroke up and down his arm, running her fingers through the light smattering of arm hair there.

She's carefully monitoring her breathing, in and out, slow and steady as Stiles rolls his hips into her over and over again. It is so slow that it is agonizing, and in this position he never fully leaves her body, instead rippling through her repeatedly as his breath stutters in her ear.

When his hand moves off of her stomach to gently rub at her clit, she's gone. She comes silently, arching backwards, and Stiles' shoulder catches her as she keens. His thrusts start to become unsteady when he feels her squeezing around him, and her hand is still gently rubbing his arm as he moans in her ear. It takes both of them several moments to catch their breaths, Stiles still inside of Lydia, and then he pulls out, almost seeming regretful.

Lydia chases him, turning around so that she can lean her head against the hard line of his shoulder and drown herself in his bare, pale skin.

"So that," Stiles pants, tracing his fingers over her spine again. "Um. Was that what you wanted?"

Lydia lifts her head from where it is ducked into his shoulder, looking up at him. She brings her hands up to cup his cheeks, staring into his eyes.

"Yes," she says clearly. "I wanted _you_."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, instead pulling her close against him and stroking her hair.

Something that is just _right_ wakes up inside of Lydia.

She pushes it down.

* * *

 

"I think this is the last of it, kiddo," the sheriff says, ruffling Stiles' hair. "You sure you got everything out of your bedroom?"

"Definitely," Stiles says, hands on his hips as he looks around their living room. "Thanks for the help, daddy-o."

"Hey, excuse me!" Scott says from the corner, where he's setting down Lydia's last box— it's filled with books, although it's labelled 'candles.' She wonders if that's why Scott keeps looking at it like it's the devil. "I helped too."

"Yeah but I offered to buy you a burger." Stiles shrugs. "So I really don't _have_ to thank you. I am under absolutely no obligation."

"Thank you, Scott," Lydia says for Stiles. She's got her hair in a braid crown, circling her head, and a loosely fitting shirt that glides over her seven-months-pregnant stomach. "I, unlike your best friend, deeply appreciate your efforts."

"Yeah, you don't get to talk," Stiles says, pointing an accusatory finger. "It seems awfully coincidental that you just _happened_ to be pregnant when we were moving in so that you couldn't lift a damn box."

The sheriff stares at Stiles like he's insane for a solid thirty seconds before looking over at Lydia with a tired expression on his face.

"Enjoy him," he says. "He's a _delight_ when he's hungry."

She shares a knowing look with Scott, just to piss Stiles off a little bit more, but the truth is, she already knows all that. She knows so much more about Stiles Stilinski than she ever thought she would— or ever thought she would _want_ to. And all she wants is more. It's her secret addiction; the guiltiest pleasure in her life.

Well, _mostly_ secret.

"They'll be great," Allison says, wrapping her arms around Lydia from behind and pulling her into a hug. "Lydia, the lamp you picked out for your side table is the cutest."

"I hope you like the daybed in the nursery," notes Lydia. "Because you're going to be sleeping on it whenever you're here."

"I'm okay with that."

She and Allison had been setting up her bedroom while Scott, Stiles, and the Sheriff brought all of the kitchen and living room stuff up the elevator, and Lydia is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that Allison and Scott are going to have dinner and then _leave_. They're just going to leave Stiles and Lydia alone in their apartment where they're supposed to raise a baby together.

That's only… extraordinarily terrifying.

"Why don't we go set up the kitchen?" Lydia suggests, trying to ignore the lump in her throat at the idea of Allison leaving.

She's supposed to be grown-up. She's supposed to be strong. She's not supposed to be freaked out about living with a _boy_.

"Sounds great," Allison says, heading through the doorway that leads there. The sheriff and Scott vanish into the bedroom that is Stiles', and Lydia makes to follow Allison, but is stopped by Stiles' fingers on her wrist.

"Hey," he says. "You okay?"

"What?" Lydia asks, turning around with a perfectly normal look on her face.

"C'mon. I know when you're faking."

"Well, I did that a lot with you." He narrows his eyes and purses his lips at her. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry."

"Damn straight you're sorry."

"I have to go… set up our kitchen. I guess."

His eyes trace her face, darting over it quickly.

"Are you freaking out?" he surmises, lips quirking up in amusement. " _You_?"

"No!" she says defensively.

"Oh really?"

"Really!" she insists.

"So it doesn't freak you out that I'm gonna see you without makeup on in the morning?"

Okay, so maybe she hadn't thought about that, exactly.

"Um. I."

"And I'm _probably_ gonna see you when you get out of the shower."

"Probably," acquises Lydia.

"And you're definitely gonna see me walking around in my underwear at some point, because, full disclosure, I'm usually too lazy to sleep with clothes on."

"I'll be sure to avoid your room, in that case," Lydia says stiffly, turning around to head back into the kitchen.

"Lydia," he calls after her. She stops. Doesn't turn around. "Okay. I know this isn't, like, ideal. I know what your plan's always been. But I promise I'm… I'm not gonna get in the way of that, okay? And it's not gonna be so bad. I'll cook for you, cuz I know how, and I'll always quiz you during finals, and I'll watch those dumb HGTV shows that you like sometimes. I'll just… I'll try to make your day better when it's bad, cuz just _seeing_ you can make my day better sometimes. So. Yeah." He hesitates, staring at his hands. "I just… I don't want you to regret me. This."

She's _staring_ at him by the time he gathers the courage to look up at her. His eyes search her face, a little desperate, a little needy, and it causes something to settle inside of Lydia. She knows the words he's never said. She knows what she hasn't let him tell her. And they're going to be okay, right? They have to be— for the baby. But also for themselves.

Lydia isn't moving in with a guy. She's moving in with Stiles. She's moving in with the boy she fell in love with.

And it's the same thing, maybe. But the distinction is huge.

"We should take a break from the name list tonight," she suggests. "Maybe… make popcorn and watch a movie together?"

Stiles starts to smile.

"Yeah. That sounds really good." He pauses, then opens his mouth to speak, but Lydia cuts him off.

" _Fine_ , I will watch The Proposal with you again."

"Yes!" Stiles says, fist pumping.

"STILES!" his dad shouts from his bedroom. "Get your ass in here."

"Oops, gotta go," he says, glancing towards the doorway. "Seeya later, roomie."

She hears the small giggle he lets out at that sentence, but she chooses to be nice and ignore it. At least for now.

* * *

 

Stiles' bedroom door has a "keep out" sign taped on it that he says is ironic, but Lydia isn't entirely convinced. Still, when she knocks on it three times, her hand shaking in the darkness of the evening, she begins to wonder if maybe she should heed the warning of the words.

Regardless, a bleary "Lydia?" sounds from inside of the room, and she pushes the door open, surprised to find Stiles squinting in the light of the hallway.

"Hi," she says, voice trembling.

"Hey," he replies, voice like sandpaper.

"I'm… sorry to wake you up."

"Whas goin on?"

She brushes a tear away from her eye impatiently.

"Do you think we're doing the right thing?" she asks, voice hard.

"Lydia… what?"

"We're keeping this baby, and we're going to raise her and we are nineteen-years-old, Stiles. We aren't equipped to be parents, we have no idea how to do this, we don't even act like we _like_ each other half the time. And I have goals that I still want to pursue… what if I can't have them because of her? What if I… project that onto her, or something like that, and then I'm just the worst mother ever because I royally screwed up my baby?"

She can't believe she's saying all of this to him, but at the end of the day, when the world stops spinning, he's the one she would want to tell about it. About all of it.

Even if he's an idiot with no fewer than five Star Wars posters on his bedroom wall.

Stiles scoots to the side of the bed that Lydia doesn't sleep on and pushes his covers back. He barely seems to be awake; when she closes the door, he lets out a sigh of relief and snuggles deeper into his pillow. Slowly, Lydia gets underneath the covers and allows Stiles to tug her close to him, draping his arm over her waist and burying his nose in the crook of her neck.

"The thing is," he says, mumbling it into her skin, "there aren't really that many people in this world who I would trust with my life. And there aren't that many people who I would give my life up _for,_ you know? But, Lydia, I'd do both those things for you. And it's not because of… whatever, of how I feel about you or anything. It's cuz you're one of those ridiculously superior people who deserves to live. It's not like you have a positive effect on everybody you meet, it's more like… your mind is amazing. And one of the things about it is that, if you choose to love something or someone… if you choose to _give_ yourself to that thing… it's, like, the most important thing in the world to you. And I think that's incredible. I've _always_ thought that was incredible." He takes a moment to allow her buzzing brain to catch up to his words. "I've known you since we were five, okay? So believe me when I say that you aren't gonna mess up your kid because you resent it. If there's anybody in this world who has the ability to do _anything,_ it's you."

"I can't do anything," she says, voice small. "I can't tell you that I…" She trails off. "And I don't know why."

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hand up and down her bare arm and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Do you think anybody knows how to do anything? We fake our way through life— that's it. I know you're perfect at everything you do, but you don't have to be. I mean, hell, do you think I'm thrilled that Scott's better at changing diapers than I am? Not really, but damn, it doesn't make me a bad dad before my kid's even born."

"You were practicing on a _watermelon._ "

"Still. He's better."

She knows he's trying to make her laugh, and it works a little. She grabs his hand off of her arm and presses a kiss to his fingers before putting it back.

"You're good at this," she murmurs. "I don't know… I don't know what to do. I haven't had this in such a long time. And never like this, Stiles."

"You don't have to be good at this," he says, voice pleading. "You don't have to tell me anything. But can you let me say it? I… I feel like I've been lying to you, and I'm fuckin' sick of it, Lydia."

She swallows hard, fear surging inside of her.

"Not tonight," she says. "I can't do this tonight."

"We're sorta running out of time, Lydia," he says, voice starting to raise. "Are you ever going to be able to, or is this just… gonna be on the backburner for the rest of our lives?"

"I don't know."

Her mouth feels dry; she can't help but note the way his touch has gone away. He isn't rubbing his hands over her arms anymore. He's still.

"So, what?" Stiles asks, impatient. "What happens when we actually have time to ourselves again, after this kid is born? Am I supposed to date like we never happened?"

"Stiles," she says, itchy to be done with the conversation, "we never really _did_ happen."

His body is away from hers in an instant. She regrets it so quickly, but it's too late to take it back. She swallows it down because that is what she _does_. Her mom. Stef. Jackson. She had told him so long ago that she knows how the story ends. And she _does_.

"Nice, Lydia," he mutters under his breath. "Real nice."

"Thanks for the pep talk," she says icily, pushing out of the bed and walking to the door. The baby moves inside of her, harshly jerking against her stomach, and it makes Lydia feel physically sick.

She crawls back into bed and wonders how she could possibly feel worse than she had when she left her bedroom the first time.

* * *

 

"You two just stopped talking?"

"I guess it was a fluke," Lydia says, trying to sound more casual than she feels. "You know. You hate a guy. You sleep with him. You think you're probably in love with him. Eight months later, you realize that he _sucks_ but it's too late to not have his baby."

"Stiles doesn't suck," Allison says flatly, her voice crackling over the phone. "He's just getting emotional whiplash from you and he doesn't know what to do."

"I beg to differ."

"About the emotional whiplash?"

Oh no, that's definitely true.

"No, about him sucking."

"You've got an IQ higher than 170 and you can't come up with a better way to insult him?"

"Cut me some slack. I'm taking four classes and carrying the spawn of my sworn enemy," Lydia says, adjusting the phone so that it's seated more comfortably under her ear as she fills in a sudoku puzzle.

"You two spent the _entirety_ of high school using the enemy thing as a front to disguise how you really felt about each other, and now you're doing it again. Does that not seem insanely immature to you?"

Lydia ponders on this.

"No," she decides eventually. "It seems like an incredible solution to something that shouldn't have been a problem in the first place." Allison doesn't say anything. Lydia knows why. "Stiles isn't a problem."

"You're _in love_ with him."

"I'm not, because if I was, he would be a problem. And I _just_ said he wasn't."

"I know you're hormonal, but if there's any way you'd be able to get over yourself and talk to the guy living two doors down from you, I'm pretty sure both of you would be happier for it."

"Or—" Lydia begins, and Allison groans loudly on the other end of the line.

"Listen to me. This is Stiles. Not Jackson."

Her heart freezes.

"So?"

"So he isn't going to hurt you."

There's a moment of vindictive pleasure that curdles in Lydia's stomach as a small, snide smile begins to lift her lips to the side.

"Oh, sweetheart. That's completely the wrong argument to make."

"Is it?" Allison asks skeptically.

"Mhm."

"And why's that?"

"Because," Lydia says simply. "He already has."

* * *

 

It takes missing the hell out of him to start to realize that she may have been wrong.

More than Allison's loving exasperation, more than Scott's sad puppy-dog encouragement, more than Stiles' steely silence and the way sometimes he looks over at her like he wants to say something, but then stops himself. She misses him _just_ enough to realize that there is a scenario in which Lydia Martin may have acted irrationally.

She's not used to being irrational. She's the one who has a good head on her two strong shoulders. She's the one who is always _right_.

Lydia's spooning sugar into her tea one day, watching Stiles swear at his laptop over on the couch, when she realizes that spending another day with this ridiculous division between them is stupid and wrong and more damaging than anything else.

Still. She shuts her mouth. Holds her head up high when she walks past him to go into her bedroom. Tries to tell herself that one day she'll stop being stubborn and just say it to him. She needs to learn how to _give_ — she takes so much.

(Truly, she hates when Allison is right.)

* * *

 

Scott's papers are spread all the way across the kitchen table, stacked messily across the surface. There's three mugs of hot chocolate, about six pencils lolling around, and a laptop on which he furious types his essay.

"How's this?" he asks Lydia, gesturing to his computer with his chin, and she walks over from the sink to peer over his shoulder at the words written on the word document in front of him.

"Good," she says, tracing the mousepad with her index finger. "Just make sure you support that supposition with textual evidence, it's too much of a claim for you to not support it more deeply."

"Okay," he says cheerfully, fingers grabbing for the book that he's got on the table next to mug number two. "But is it too much of a departure from the thesis?"

"I think you can spin it back," decides Lydia, going back to the sink, where she's working on washing the dishes from their lunch a few minutes ago.

"Um, Lydia?" Scott says.

"Mhm?"

"Did you spill some water on the floor, or like…?"

She looks down and sucks in a startled breath when she sees fluid dripping down her leg. She looks back up at Scott, eyes wide.

"Did my water just break?"

He blinks.

"Um… I think so?"

"But… the book said it only happens to fifteen percent of women."

"Congratulations?" Scott says hopefully.

"Scott," she snaps.

His eyes widen.

"Sorry! Um, yeah, we should probably… call Stiles. He's in class right now, yeah? We can just text him; he's always on his phone."

Lydia's eyes harden.

"I decided that I don't want Stiles in there with me."

"What? When?"

"Have you seen the miracle of childbirth? It's disgusting. He doesn't need to see that. Let's just… wait until my contractions are a bit closer together, and then go to the hospital."

"We're supposed to sit around and wait until they get worse?"

"Mhm," Lydia says, feigning nonchalance.

"I don't know if I can do that," Scott admits, looking panicked. "What if we just… went toward the hospital? Just in that general direction."

"No, we have to wait. Keep writing your essay."

"Lydia, you're going into _labor_. What if we get there too late?"

Lydia sighs.

"Believe me, Scott. I've done research. I'll know when it's time to go."

She does know, but it's more in the form of Lydia swearing very loudly and gripping Scott's hand so tight that he yelps before scooching out of his chair and making a mad dash for the suitcase Lydia's been keeping in her bedroom. They get into her car— Scott drives— and usually he's very careful, but today he speeds, his hands beating anxiously against the steering wheel. She keeps both of them calm by loudly playing the push playlist that Stiles had put together before they'd gotten into their fight.

The first part of labor is wildly underwhelming. Lydia lies in her bed impatiently and does homework while her body seems to tear itself apart. Scott calls Allison, Stiles, and Lydia's mom as soon as they get her settled, then returns to Lydia. He holds her hand and times her contractions with stress pulling at his features, a cute quirk between his eyebrows.

She hopes she doesn't scar him forever with this. Allison and Scott would have _adorable_ babies.

At one point, Scott glances down at his phone and perks up. Lydia throws him a look of warning immediately.

"Do _not_ let him in here."

"Can I go see him?"

She closes her eyes, feeling another contraction beginning.

"Of course," she says, not wanting him to go.

The next several hours are probably the worst of Lydia's life. She puts them into categories:

Allison pulling up Lydia's favorite movie on Netflix.

Pain.

Scott rambling on about something that Lydia did in middle school that is supposed to make her feel better, but she doesn't really remember it.

Pain.

Her mom, mopping sweat from her brow with shaking hands and a worried purse on her lips.

Pain.

Allison and Scott whispering in the corner, glancing at their phones every once in awhile, and Lydia knows they're texting Stiles.

Pain.

And Stiles. Thinking about him nervous, pacing in the waiting room like a dad from a goddamn 60s movie. Thinking about the way he's been looking at her lately, like she's so breakable but so valuable. Thinking about the fact that, in a way, he's _always_ looked at her like she's valuable. That's not the thing that's changed. What's changed is the wounded expression on his face, waiting for her to make it okay again.

Pain flashes through her gut, white-hot and agonizing. She thinks she's going to throw up, but she never does.

She remembers Stiles saying that she's one of his favorite people, and that seeing her makes his day better. She remembers the boy who sat on the floor of the art room, crying because his family had been ripped apart. And right now, right here, he's getting a new family. And she's taking it away from him.

"Stiles," she gasps at Scott as the pain subsides slightly. "I need you to go get Stiles. _Please_."

He's out the door in two seconds, Allison following hot at his heels.

"That contraction was faster," Lydia's mom says, checking her phone. "Sweetheart, I'm going to go flag down a nurse. It might be time for you to push."

Lydia's only alone for a few moments before the door bursts open, just when she's merging into another contraction. Stiles sprints to her bed, hand immediately finding her hair, pushing wispy red strands away from her forehead.

"Lydia," he pants, hand grabbing hers tightly. "Are you okay?"

"Not exactly," she says, gritting her teeth and crushing his hand. "Actually, no."

"Scotty says you're doing amazing."

The pain subsides a bit.

"It hurts," she says quietly, like it's some big secret. He laughs a little tearfully, kissing her sweaty forehead.

"I know, I know, but Lydia… she's gonna be perfect."

Her responding smile is watery and grateful.

"It turns out that I don't think I can do this without you."

"How 'bout that?"

"Shut up," she says, swatting at him. Another contraction seizes her body, and she feels the strange urge to giggle through the pain as Stiles practically chokes on his own spit in alarm at the sight of her face contorted in agony.

"Holy fuck," he says when the pain's gone down— although it hasn't receded enough, and Lydia finds herself lingering in it, anguished. He smoothes back her hair again, tucking it behind her ears so that it's out of her way.

"Before she comes, I have to tell you that you were right."

He blinks.

"What?"

"You were right about us needing that time... I shouldn't have been too scared to give it to us. I should have trusted you, I'm sorry that I couldn't, but Stiles I—"

"No, it was me," he says, cutting her off, thumb brushing her cheek. "It was me, okay? I should have given you time to adjust, but I was already there, you know? I'd been there forever."

"What do you mean?" she asks, gasping through the fresh wave of pain that's hitting her.

"Lydia, I've had a crush on you since the third grade. I was in love with you throughout high school— I've _always_ loved you."

She ogles him in shock, just as her mother comes in with the doctor.

"Lydia, your mother says your contractions are getting closer and harder. I just want to check and see how dilated you are." She stares at Stiles still, her mouth popped open. _Throughout high school_. The third freaking grade? What the—? "Looks like you're ten centimeters. We're going to move you to the other room. Who are you bringing with you?"

"Stiles," says Lydia immediately, latching onto his hand. Stiles Stilinski. Who has been in love with her since third grade. He swallows nervously, looks down at her, and nods resolutely.

She looks back on it later and remembers the better moments. Stiles with his arm wrapped around her leg, holding it in place as she pushes. His sweet eyes looking encouragingly into hers. The way he helps her get her hair into a bun when it gets too sweaty on her neck. The way he goofily dances to the songs on her push playlist to make her laugh when there's tears pouring from her eyes and she's shaking with effort. The way he kisses her salty, sweaty cheeks and tells her that everything is going to be okay. The look on Stiles' face when he holds his daughter for the first time, shoving tears away with the heel of his hand as he stares down at her, unable to look away.

"What's her name?" the sheriff asks, holding his granddaughter for the first time an hour later.

"Scarlett," Stiles says softly.

"Scarlett Martin-Stilinski," adds Lydia. "It's kind of a mouthful, we know."

The sheriff looks up with awed eyes.

"Scarlett like—?"

"O'Hara," Stiles finishes for him. "Mom's favorite movie, yeah."

The sheriff can't speak for several moments after that, but Lydia doesn't need words to understand the look on his face.

She finds herself speechless as well as Scarlett's godparents hold her for the first time, their voices soft and adoring as they introduce themselves as "Uncle Scott" and "Auntie Allison."

But in the end, her strongest memory from that night will always be Stiles crawling into bed with her and the baby, his arms around them, whispering to them that he loves them before Lydia falls asleep wrapped up in the most important people in her life.

* * *

 

Rosy pink light spills from underneath the door as Lydia stumbles out of bed and makes her way across the carpet. She's barefoot, and in a t-shirt that she's almost certain is Stiles', but she likes it because it's soft, and it's not the first time she's plucked his clothes out of one of their laundry baskets.

She's yawning as she makes her way into Scarlett's room, pausing to lean against the doorway to watch Stiles with their daughter. He is in a ratty t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms that are slung low on his hips, and he is walking around the room with Scarlett standing up against his shoulder. His arm is curved under her, while his hand rests on top of her head, rubbing gently against the downy red hair that comes out in thin tufts.

"And then Walter offers Jesse a job at the lab, and Jesse takes it but he starts selling meth from the lab on the side, which is really bad because you shouldn't keep secrets, and you shouldn't steal, and also you shouldn't sell drugs at all in the first place, unless it's weed."

"I'm so glad you're teaching our two month old daughter the proper morals," says Lydia dryly, her arms crossed over her chest. Stiles startles, looking over to see her in the doorway with her brows raised judgmentally.

"I mean. She's about to become a citizen of the world. I'm just preparing her. Doing my fatherly duty."

"I think we can wait a _bit_ longer before finishing out the entire plot of Breaking Bad."

"It soothes her," argues Stiles. The owl onesie that Scarlett is wearing somehow seems cuter with Stiles' hand on it. In the light blue color of the room, her rosy cheeks seem to glow even pinker. Lydia knows that, if she were to come close, she would smell the soap that Stiles had used when he was giving her a bath earlier tonight.

Lydia has come to realize that there are very few things in this world she loves more than the smell of her daughter's head.

"Daddy is a liar," Lydia says to Scarlett, very seriously.

"Alright, so it entertains me."

"Mhm. There you go." He smiles at Lydia in the warm light of Scarlett's room, bouncing her a little bit as she stares at Lydia with enormous, riveted eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? It was my turn."

"You have a test tomorrow. I had it." It's sweet. She can't help but smile. "Why'd you wake up, anyways?"

"I rolled over onto your side and you didn't shove me back. I think it startled me."

"Ha," he says. "Excuse me. You're the pusher."

"Because you get _snuggly_."

"I'm not aware of what I'm doing, I'm asleep!"

"And because you love me," she says, voice serene.

Stiles, on the other hand, seems startled.

"Uh," he says. "Are we talking about this now?"

Lydia mashes her lips together, looking up at him calmly.

"Only because I love you too," she says.

He closes his eyes as her words settle into him, exhaling lengthily, a relieved sound.

"You do?"

She swallows down her hesitation.

"I do. And I want to be with you. For real this time."

They've been sleeping in the same bed for two months. This has been coming for over a year— maybe longer. But still, there is something enormous about this moment. It is the moment she becomes his and means it with every piece of herself. It is the moment she leaves behind her fears and steps into something lighter, more important. Braver.

"For real," he echoes. "You and me, for real."

She cups his cheeks with her hands, rising on her tiptoes to look at him carefully.

"I'm not going to run away again. I'm not going to let myself."

Lydia Martin marries Stiles Stilinski for the second time on November 8th, 2014, a little more than a year after their first dance.

It isn't a real wedding, but it is the biggest commitment she makes to him. Later on, she will walk down a long aisle towards him in a pretty white dress. But this moment, in ratty pajamas, with their daughter between them as they kiss, means more than that. It is the most final moment she ever has with him, and both of them know, right there, that regardless of whether or not they have rings, this is it. There isn't any walking away.

She's glad to be a favor given to him by the world, because Stiles Stilinski is her favor too.

She knows how this ends. And it ends with this moment, right here. It ends with them.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thank you so much for reading this fanfic! I really appreciate it. I spent a long, long, long time on it and I'm thrilled that you reached the end and gave me your time. I love telling you guys stories, Stydia fandom, and I love Stydia. Thank you. 
> 
> Once again, love you, Maggie, and I hope the word count makes up for the fact that I'm posting it a couple of days before my birthday when it's your birthday present. Yes? Maybe? No. Okay. Fail. (AT LEAST I'M STILL IN VIRGO TERRITORY!)
> 
> I'm rongasm on tumblr and writergirl8 on twitter if you feel the need to yell at me for how disturbingly cliche this fanfic was. I get that.


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